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HUDSONRIVERBRACKETED
BY
EDITHWHARTON
HUDSONRIVERBRACKETED
BOOKI
I
BythetimehewasnineteenVanceWestonhadgraduatedfromtheCollegeof
Euphoria,Illinois,wherehisparentsthenlived,hadspentaweekinChicago,
invented a new religion, and edited for a few months a college magazine
calledGettingThere,towhich he had contributed several love poems and a
seriesoficonoclasticessays.Hehadalsobeenengagedforawholeweekto
theinspirerofthepoems,agirlseveralyearsolderthanhimselfcalledFloss
Delaney,whowasthesomewhatblown-upondaughterofanunsuccessfulreal
estatemanlivinginadejectedoutskirtofthetown.
Havingsoaredtotheseheights,andplumbedthesedepths,itnowremainedto
youngWestontofixupontheusestowhichhisvariedaptitudesand
experiencescouldmostadvantageouslybeput.
Of all the events so far befalling him, none seemed to Vance Weston as
importantashavinginventedanewreligion.Hehadbeenbornintoaworldin
whicheverythinghadbeen,orwasbeing,renovated,anditstruckhimasan
anomalythatallthereligionshehadheardofhadbeeninexistenceeversince
hecouldremember;thatis,atleastsixteenyears.Thisseemedtohimthemore
unaccountable because religion, of one sort or another, seemed to play a
considerable,if ratherspasmodic orintermittent,partinthe livesofmost of
thepeopleheknew,andbecause,fromthefirstdawnofconsciousness,hehad
heardeverybodyadjuringeverybodyelsenottogetintoarut,buttogoahead
withthetimes,asbehovedallgoodAmericans.
The evolution of his own family was in its main lines that of most of the
families he had known. Since the time of Mrs. Weston's marriage, when
GrandmawasteachingschoolatPruneville,Nebraska,andthewhole
family depended on her earnings, till now, when she and Grandfather took
their ease in an eight-room Colonial cottage in a suburb of Euphoria, and
peoplecame from as farasChicago to consult Mr.Weston about realestate
matters, the family curve had been continually upward. Lorin Weston, who
had wandered out to Pruneville to try and pick up a job on the local
newspaper, had immediately seen the real estate possibilities of that
lamentablecommunity,hadputhislastpennyintoabitofswampylandnear
the future railway station, got out at a big rise when the railway came, and
againplumpedhisallonanotherlotoflandnearwherehismother-in-lawhad
found out that the new high school was to be built. Then there had come a
stagnantperiodinthedevelopmentofPruneville,andMr.Westonhadmoved
hiswifeandyoungfamilytoHallelujah,Mo.,wherehehadrepeatedthesame
experimentwithincreasingprofit.Whilehewasthere,arealestatemanfrom
Advancecameovertotakealookround,talkedtoWestonaboutAdvance,and
awakenedhiscuriosity.ToAdvancethefamilywent,compensatedbyabigger
andbetterhousefortheexpenseofhavingtoleaveHallelujah.AtAdvancethe
Weston son and heir was born, and named after his birthplace, which had
deservedwellofMr.Weston,sincehewasable,whenVancewasnineorten,
toleavethereforEuphoria,buyupnearlythewholeofthePigLanesideof
the town, turn it into the Mapledale suburb, and build himself a house with
lawn,garage,sleepingporchandsunparlour,whichwasphotographedforthe
architectural papers, and made Mrs. Weston the envy of the Alsop Avenue
churchsewingcircle.EvenGrandmaScrimser,whohadneverbeenmuchofa
hand at making or keeping money, and was what the minister of the Alsop
Avenuechurchcalled"idealistic,"didnotquestiontheimportanceofmaterial
prosperity,orthevalueofMr.Weston'sbusiness"brightness,"andsomewhere
inthebiglumberroomofhermindhadfoundapointwhereotherworldliness
and"pep"laydowntogetherinamity.
Thisbeingso--and such phrases as "back number," "down and out," "out of
the running," and the like having never been used in young Vance's hearing
save in a pejorative sense--he wondered how it was that the enlightened
millions,withwhomitwasasignof"pep"andprosperitytogoinforalmost
annualturnoversinrealestate,stocks,automobiles,wivesandhusbands,were
content to put up year after year with the same religion, or religions rather,
sincenearlyeverybodyheknewhadadifferentone.
Vance Weston, in truth, could not dissociate stability from stagnation, any
moreinreligionthaninbusiness.Allthepeoplehehadheardofwhohadn't
gotamoveonattherightminute,inwhateverdirection,weredownandout.
Even the most high-minded among the ministers admitted this, and
emphasizedreligionasthegreatestknownshortcuttoSuccess.(Ifyou'dcome
andjointheirSundayeveningclassesforyoungmen,andsubscribetoZion's
Spotlight,you'dfindoutwhy.)Yet,inspiteofthis,nobodyhadmanaged,in
VanceWeston'slifetime,toevolveanewreligion,andtheywereallstilltrying
tocatchanewgenerationwiththeoldbait.
Thinking about religion ran in Vance's family--at least on his mother's side.
GrandmaScrimserhadalwayscaredaboutitmorethanaboutanythingelse.
Atsixty-fiveshewasstillamagnificent-lookingwoman,ratherlikepicturesof
aGermanprimadonnamadeupasaWalkyrie;withstormyblackeyebrows,
shortyellowish-whitehair(yearsbeforetheyoungonesbegantobebobbed),
and a broad uncertain frame which reminded Vance (after he had acquired
lightsonmodernart)ofafigurebyanartistwhohadgeniusbutdidn'tknow
howtodraw.
As a girl Grandma was said to have been gloriously beautiful; and Vance
couldwellbelieveit.Indeed,shemadenosecretofitherself--whyshouldshe,
when she regarded it only as an inconvenient accident, a troublesome
singularity, and (she had been known to admit in confidential moments) an
obstacle to Grandpa Scrimser's advance to Perfection? Perfection was
Grandma's passion--ladies were Grandpa's. While his wife was young her
beautymighthaveservedtocircumscribehisyearningsifonlyshehadchosen
tomakeuseofit.Buttheideaofbeautyasagifttobeused,trained,exercised,
anddirectedwastohernotsomuchimmoralasunintelligible.Sheregarded
herselfasafflictedwithaGreeknose,massesofwavyamberhair,andarichly
glowingduskycomplexion,asotherwomenmighthavebornethecrossofa
birthmarkoracrookedspine.Shecouldnotunderstand"whatpeoplesawin
it," or in the joys to which it was the golden gateway. As tothese joys she
professed a contemptuous incredulity. What she wanted was to reform the
world;andbeautyandpassionwerebuthindrancestoherpurpose.Shewanted
to reform everything--it didn't particularly matter what: cooking, marriage,
religion (of course religion), dentistry, saloons, corsets--even Grandpa.
Grandpausedto complainthatincookingshe hadnevergotveryfar onthe
waytoPerfection--onlyjustfarenoughtogivehimdyspepsia.Butsinceshe
wouldnotindulgehisconjugalsentimentsundulyhewasgratefulthatatleast
thepursuitofPerfectionleftherlittletimetoinvestigatehisprivateaffairs;so
that, on the whole, the marriage was accounted a happy one, and the four
children born of it were taught to revere both parents, though for different
reasons. Grandma, of course, was revered for being a mother in Israel;
Grandpaforhavingoncemadeasuccessfulrealestatedeal,andforbeingthe
best Fourth of July orator anywhere in Drake County. They were a
magnificent- looking couple, too, and when Old Home Weeks began to be
inauguratedthroughouttheland,Mr.andMrs.Scrimserwereingreatdemand
in
tableauxrepresentingTheOldFolksatHome,Mrs.Scrimserspinningbythe
kitchen hearth, and Grandpa (with his new set removed, to bring out his
likeness to George Washington) leaning on a silver-headed crutch stick, his
nutcracker chin reposing on a spotless stock. But Grandma liked better
figuringasthePioneerWifeinalogcabin,withGrandpa(thenewsetinplace
again)garbedinacowpuncher'srig,aiminghisshotgunthroughacrackinthe
shutters, and the children doing Indian war whoops behind the scenes. "I
couldn'teverhavesatstilllongenoughtospinthehouselinen,likethewoman
in that Lady Washington picture; but I guess I'd have been a real good
pioneer'swife,"sheexplained,notunboastfully.
"You've always kept house as if you was one," Grandpa would grumble,
pushingawayhistepidcoffeeandshrivelledbacon;andMrs.Scrimserwould
answer:"I'msorryyourbreakfastdon'tjustsuityoutoday,father;butIguess
itwon'tsetyoubackmuchonthepathtoEternity.Ihadtoletthehiredgirlgo
to that camp meeting last night, and they always come back from their
meetingsaslimpasrags,soIhadhercookyourbaconbeforeshewent."
"Oh,Christ,"Grandpaejaculated;andhisdaughter,Mrs.LorinWeston,shook
herheadseverelyatlittleVance,asmuchastosaythathewasnottolisten
whenGrandpatalkedlikethat,or,alternatively,thatGrandpahadn'treallysaid
whatlittleVancethoughthehad.
GrandmaScrimserwas ofcoursemoreinterestedthan anyonein theideaof
Vance's new religion. In the first place, she agreed with him that a new one
wasneeded,thoughshestillthoughttheRockofAgeswasthebestfoundation
anyreligioncouldhave,andhopedVancewouldn'tmakethemgiveupsinging
old hymns. It took some time to make her understand that perhaps there
wouldn't be any more hymns, or any sort of formal worship, but just a
mystical communion between souls to whom the same revelation had been
vouchsafed."Youbecarefulnow,Vance,howyou'remystical,"shechidhim;
"timeandagainI'veknownthattoendinababy."ButasVancedevelopedhis
theory he had the sense that she could not understand what he was talking
about.Hereducationhad not prepared her to follow him beyond the simply
phaseofpiousejaculationandcontrition.
Vance'sparentsweretotallyunaffectedbyoldMrs.Scrimser'stranscendental
yearnings. When Grandpa Scrimser's digestion gave out, or he needed a
change,healwayspackedhisgripandmovedinfromthesuburbwhereheand
Grandmanowlived to spend a week with the Westons. His other daughter,
who had inherited her mother's neglected beauty, inherited also her scorn of
comfort and her zeal for reform, and in the cause of temperance and high
thinkingdraggedafterherfromone
lectureplatformtoanotheradyspeptichusbandwhowasdyingofacontinual
dietofsodabiscuitsandcannedfood.ButMrs.LorinWeston,asmallround-
facedwomanwitharesolutemouth,hadalwaysstayedathome,lookedafter
her children, fed her husband well, and, whenever he made a "turnover,"
bought a picture or a piano cover to embellish one or the other of their
successive dwellings. She took a wholesome interest in dress, had herself
manicured once a week after they moved to Euphoria, and by the time they
hadbuilttheirnewhouseonMapledaleAvenuehadsavedupenoughtohave
asunparlourwithpalmsandapinkgramophone,whichwastheenvyofthe
neighbourhood.
AsforLorinWeston,adrysmallishman,notallerthanhiswife,hewaslike
one of the shrivelled Japanese flowers which suddenly expand into bloom
whenputinwater.Mr.Weston'snaturalelementwasbuyingandsellingreal
estate;andhecouldnotunderstandhowanynormalhumanbeingcouldexist
inanyother,ortalkaboutanythingelse.Ifpressed,hewouldprobablyhave
admitted that an organized society necessitated the existence of policemen,
professors,lawyers,judges,dentists,andevenministersofreligion(tooccupy
the women: he had read Ingersoll, and his own views were Voltairean). But
thoughhemighthaveconcededasmuchtheoretically,hecouldnotconceive
how,inpractice,anysanemancouldbeinanythingbutrealestate.Asinthe
caseofallgeniuses,theexerciseofhisgiftcametohimsonaturallythathe
could no more imagine anyone earning money in other ways than he could
imaginelivingwithoutbreathing.Hedidindeedtakeasubordinateinterestin
housebuilding,becausepeoplewhointendedtobuildhouseshadfirsttobuy
land,andalsobecauseifyouhavethenervetorunupalikely-lookinglittle
houseonanunpromisinglotofland,youmaybeabletosellthehouseandlot
togetherforaconsiderablybiggersumthantheycostyou,andeventostarta
realestateboominsoilwherenothingofthesorthasevergrown.Inspiredby
suchconsiderations,hedevelopedaprettytasteinsuburbanarchitecture,and
wasoftenconsultedbybuildersanddecoratorsastosomefancytouchinhall
or sleeping porch, while Mrs. Weston's advice was invaluable in regard to
kitchenandlinencloset.Betweenthemtheyservedtheirtradelikeareligion,
Mrs.Westonputtingintoithermother'szealforsoulsandMr.Westonmaking
clientscometothesuburbsashismother-in-lawmadethemcometoJesus.
The Mapledale suburb, which was entirely Mr. Weston's creation, was
Euphoria's chief source of pride, and always the first thing shown to
distinguished visitors after the Alsop Building, the Dental College, and the
Cedarcrestcemetery;andassuccesswastheonlycriterionofbeautyknownto
youngVancehetookitforgrantedthatwhateverhisfathersaid
wasbeautifulmustbeso.Nevertheless,thereweremomentswhenhefeltthe
needtoescapefromthecompletenessoftheMapledalehouse,andgooutto
CramptonwhereGrandpaandGrandmaScrimserhadsettleddowninahouse
lenttothemrent-freebytheirson-in-lawinthehopethattheymighthelpto
"open up" Crampton. So far this hope had not been realized, and Crampton
remained a bedraggled village, imperfectly joined up with the expanding
Euphoria; but Lorin Weston could afford to wait, and was glad to do his
parents-in-lawagoodturn.
Mrs.WestondidnotoftengotoCrampton;especiallydidsheavoiddoingso
whenhersisterSaidieTolerwasthere.TheroadtoCramptonwassobadthat
itknockedthe Chevroletalltopieces,and besidesMrs. Weston reallycould
not bear to see a good eight-room house, that people might have been so
comfortablein, going all to pieces because Grandmawouldchooseherhelp
for their religious convictions and their plainness (she didn't trust Grandpa),
andbecausesheandSaidiewerealwaysrushingabouttoreligiousmeetings,
or to lecturesonSanitation (if she'd only looked at her own drains!), or on
Diet (when you'd eaten Grandma's food!), or whatever the newest religious,
moral, or medical fad was. Generally, too, there would be some long-haired
fanaticthere,holdingforthaboutthelast"new"somethingorotherinreligion
or morals, as eloquently as Mrs. Weston herself discoursed on refrigerators
andelectriccookers.TheseprophetsgotonMrs.Weston'snerves,andsodid
Saidie,withherslovenlyblondebeauty,alreadybedraggledasifsheleftitout
overnight, the way careless people do their cars. Mrs. Weston admired her
mother,andfelt,inasomewhatresentfulway,thedominationofherpowerful
presence;butshehatedtheconfusionthatGrandmalivedin,andpreferredto
invite the Scrimsers and Saidie to Sunday dinner in Mapledale Avenue, and
feeltheywerebeingimpressedbyherorderlyestablishment,andtheauthority
ofMr.Weston'sconversation.
VanceWestondidnotmuchfancyhisgrandmother'shouse,orherfoodeither;
the whole place, compared with his own home, was retrograde and
uncomfortable. Yet he had an unaccountable liking for the rutty lanes of
Crampton, its broken-down fences, and the maple-shaded meadow by the
river. He liked the way the trees overhung the Scrimser yard, the straggling
lilacs, and the neglected white rose over the porch. And he was always
stimulated, sometimes amused, and sometimes a little awed and excited, by
Grandma Scrimser's soaring talk and Grandpa's racy commentaries. The
prophetsdidnotimpresshim,andhisauntSaidiehepositivelydisliked;buthe
lovedtheoldcouple,anddidnotwonderthatEuphoriastillcalledonthemto
figureatnationalcelebrations.Thetownhadnothingelseasgrandtoshow.
II
Crampton,unfinished,sulky,andindifferent,continuedtolanguishoutsidethe
circleofsuccess.Thetrolleyranouttherenow,butfewsettlershadfollowed
it. Yet Lorin Weston, who was by common consent the brightest realtor in
Drake County, still believed in Crampton, and kept up the hopes of the
investors he had lured there. On the strength of his belief, a row of cheap
cottageswasspringingupalongtheroadtoEuphoria,andalreadytherealtor's
eyesawgaragesandlawnmowersintheoffing.
One warm spring day, Vance Weston strode along between the ruts, past
squaresofSwedishmarket-gardeningandrawpastureswaitingfortheboom.
ThesewerethedayswhenhelikedtheexpectancyofCramptonbetterthanthe
completenessofEuphoria--daysofthesuddenprairiespring,whenthelilacs
in his grandmother's dooryard were bursting, and the maples by the river
fringingthemselveswithrosykeys,whentheearththrobbedwithrenewaland
theheavywhitecloudsmovedacrosstheskylikeflocksofteemingewes.Ina
clumpoftreesneartheroadabirdbeganoverandoveritslowtentativesong,
andintheditchesaglossy-leavedweed,namelesstoVance,spangledthemud
withgoldenchalices.Hefeltapassionatedesiretoembracethebuddingearth
andeverythingthatstirredandswelledinit.Hewasirritatedbythefactthat
hedidnotknowthenameofthebird,oroftheyellowflowers."Ishouldlike
togive everything itsrightname, and toknowwhy that namewastheright
one,"hethought;thenamesofthingshadalwaysseemedtohimascloselyand
mysteriouslyapartofthemashisskinoreyelashesofhimself.Whatwasthe
use of all he had been taught in college if the commonest objects on this
familiarearthweresoremoteandinexplicable?Therewerebotanymanuals,
andscientificbooksontheshapesandactionofclouds;butwhathewantedto
getatwassomethingdeeper,somethingwhichmusthavebelongedtoflowers
andcloudsbeforeevermanwasborntodissectthem.Besides,hewasn'tinthe
moodforbooks,withthisspringaircaressinghim....
A little way down a lane to his right stood the tumbledown house in which
Harrison Delaney, Floss's father, lived. Though Harrison Delaney, like Mr.
Weston,wasintherealestatebusiness,hiscareerhaddifferedineveryrespect
fromhisrival's,andMr.Westonhadbeenknowntosay,in
moments of irritation, that the fact of Delaney's living at Crampton was
enoughtokeeptheboomback.HarrisonDelaneywasinfactoneoftheAwful
Warnings which served to flavour the social insipidity of thousands of
Euphorias.Therewasn'tabrightbusinessmanintheplacewhocouldn'tputhis
fingerontheexactcausesofhisfailure.Ithadallcome,theypointedout,of
hisneverbeingonthespot,missingrealestatetransactions,missingbusiness
opportunities, deals of every sort and kind--just sort of oversleeping himself
whenevertherewasanythingspecialtogetupfor.
AlmosteveryfamilyinVanceWeston'ssocialcirclecouldpointtoanAwful
Warningofthistype;butfewwereascomplete,assingularlyadaptedforthe
purpose,asHarrisonDelaneyatfifty.Youfelt,theminuteyouseteyesonhim,
thatnothingmorewouldeverhappentohim.Hehadwoundhislifeup,asa
manmightwindupanunsuccessfulbusiness,andwasjustsittingroundwith
theunexpectantlookofastockbrokeronacountryvacation,outofreachof
the ticker. There--that was the very expression! Harrison Delaney always
looked as if he was out of reach of the ticker. Only he wasn't worried or
fretful,asmostmenareinsuchacase--hewasjustindifferent.Nomatterwhat
happenedhewas indifferent.Hesaidheguessedhismakingafuss wouldn't
alterthings--itneverhad.So,wheneverybodywastalkingaboutFloss'sgoing
withthatmarrieddrummerfromChicago,whoturnedupatEuphoriaeveryso
oftenintheyear,andhiredacar,andwentoffwithheronlongexpeditions--
well,herfatherjustactedasifhedidn'tnotice;andwhentheBaptistminister
called,anddroppedahinttohim,HarrisonDelaneysaidhesupposeditwas
Naturespeaking,andhedidn'tbelievehewasthesizetointerferewithNature,
and anyhow he thought maybe one of these days the drummer would get a
divorceandmarryFloss--whichofcourseheneverdid.
It was in going out to see his grandparents that Vance had first met Floss
Delaney.Thatwasbeforethetrolleywasrunning.Theirbicyclesusedtoflash
past each other along the rutty road, and one day he found her down in the
mud,withabursttireandasprainedankle,andhelpedherhome.Atfirstit
was not the girl who interested him, but her father. Vance knew all about
Delaney,thebywordofEuphoria;butsomethingintheman'seasyindifferent
manner, his way of saying: "Oh, come in, Weston, won't you?" instead of
hailinghisvisitoras"Vance,"hisfewwordsofthanksforthehelprenderedto
hisdaughter,thesoundofhisvoice,hisveryintonation--alldifferentiatedhim
fromthebrightbusinessmanhehadsosignallyfailedtobe,andmadeVance
feel that failure also had its graces. Euphoria, he knew, felt this, however
obscurely;ithadtoadmitthathehadthemannersandaddressofamanborn
tomakehismark.Evenwhenhewasfinallydownandouthewasstillputon
committeestoreceivedistinguished
visitors.Somebodywouldlendhimablackcoatandsomebodyelseanewhat,
because there was a general though unexpressed sentiment that on such
occasionshewasmoreateasethantheirmostsuccessfulmen,includingeven
thepresidentofthecollegeandtheministeroftheAlsopAvenuechurch.But
allthiscouldnotdoawaywiththefactthathewasafailure,andcouldserve
the rising community of Euphoria only as the helots served the youth of
Sparta.AfellowoughttobeuponSocietyandEtiquette,andhowtobehaveat
abanquet,andwhatkindofcollartowear,andwhatsecretsocietiestobelong
to;butthe realbusinessoflifewas tokeepgoing,toget there--and"There"
waswheremoneywas,alwaysandexclusively.
These were the axioms that Vance had been brought up on; but when, after
Floss'saccident,hedroppedinfromtimetotimetoaskhowshewas,hefound
a strange attraction in listening to Harrison Delaney's low, slightly drawling
speech,andnoticingthewordsheused--alwaysgoodEnglishwords,richand
expressive, with hardly a concession to the local vernacular, or the passing
epidemicsofslang.
It was only when Floss began to get about again that she exercised her full
magic.OnedaywhenVancecalledhefoundheralone;andafterthat,instead
ofseekingoutHarrisonDelaney,heavoidedhim,andthepairmetoutsideof
thehouse....Hisbodyandsoulstillglowedwiththememoryofit.Butthere
wasnouseinthinkingofthatnow.She'dbeengoingwithanotherfellowall
thetime...heknewit...andhowshe'dliedtohim!He'dbeenafool;and
luckilyitwasallover.Buthestillavertedhiseyesfromthehousedownthe
lane,where,onlyafewshortmonthsago,heusedtohangaboutafterdarktill
shecameout.Onsummereveningstheywouldgodowntothemaplesbythe
river; there was a clump of bushes where you could lie hidden, breast to
breast, and watch the moon and the white cloud reflections sail by, and the
constellationsmarchacrosstheskyontheirinvisiblebridges....
TheScrimsers'househadaColonialporch,anopenfireplaceinthehall,anda
view over the river. The door yard was always rather untidy; Mrs. Scrimser
hadplantingplans,andmeantsomedaytocarrythemout.Butshewouldfirst
havehadtocutdownalotofhalf-deadbushes,andthereneverseemedtobe
anybodytodoit,whatwithGrandpa'ssciatica,andthehiredman'scomingso
irregularly, and Grandma being engaged in tidying up everybody else's door
yard,materiallyandmorally.
WhenVancereachedtheporchshewassittingthereinherrockingchair,her
blownhairtossedbackfromherbroadyellowishforehead,andherspectacles
benevolentlysurveying thelandscape.A lawn mowerstraddledthe pathand
shecalledouttohergrandson:"It'sthehiredman'sday,but
he'sgonetoabigcampmeetingatSwedenville,andyourgrandfatherbeganto
cutthegrasssothatwe'dhaveeverythinglookingnicewhenyourfatherand
mothercomeoutonSunday;butthenherememberedhehadanappointment
atMandel'sgrocery,soIdon'tseehowit'llgetdone."
"Well,perhapsI'lldoitwhenIcooloff,"saidVance,sittingdown.
TheyallknewaboutGrandpa'sappointments.Assoonashewasaskedtoput
hishandtoadomesticjobheeitherfeltatwingeofsciatica,orremembered
that he'd promised to meet a man at Mandel's grocery, or at the Elkington
HotelatEuphoria.
Mrs. Scrimser turned her eloquent gray eyes on her grandson. "Don't a day
likethis almost make you feel as ifyoucouldgetto God right through that
blue up there?" she said, pointing heavenward with a big knotted hand. She
had forgotten already about the abandoned lawn mower, and the need of
tidyingup.Whenevershesawhergrandsonallthegropingaspirationsinher
unsatisfiednaturewokeandtrembledintospeech.ButVancedidnotcareto
hearaboutherGod,who,onceyoustrippedHimofherBiblicalverbiage,was
merely the Supreme Moralist of a great educational system in which Mrs.
Scrimserheldanimportantjob.
"No,Idon'tfeelasifanythingwouldtakemenearGod.AndIdon'texactly
wanttogetnearHimanyhow;whatIwantistogetwayoutbeyondHim,out
somewherewhereHewon'tlookanybiggerthanaspeck,andthegodinme
cansortofwalkallroundHim."
Mrs. Scrimser glowed responsively: all the audacities enchanted her. "Oh, I
see what you mean, Vanny," she cried. All her life she had always been
persuadedthatshesawwhatpeoplemeant;andtheconvictionhadborneher
triumphantly from one pinnacle of credulity to another. But her grandson
smiled away her enthusiasm. "No, you don't; you don't see my god at all; I
mean,thegodinme."
Hisgrandmotherflushedupinherdisappointment."Whydon'tI,Vanny?I
knowallabouttheImmanenceofGod,"sheobjected,almostresentfully.
Vanceshookhishead.Itwasn'tmuchfunarguingwithhisgrandmotherabout
God,butitwasbetterthanhearingeternallyaboutnewelectriccleanersfrom
his mother, or about real estate from Mr. Weston, or the reorganization of
school grades from his sister Pearl. Vance respected efficiency, and even
admired it; but of late he had come to feel that as a diet for thesoulit was
deficientinnourishment. He wondered that Mrs. Weston, who was such an
authorityondiet,hadneverthoughtofapplying
themoralequivalentofthevitamintesttothelifetheyallledatMapledale.He
hadanideatheywerestarvingtodeaththerewithoutknowingit.ButoldMrs.
Scrimseratleastknewthatshewashungry,andhismindwanderedbackmore
indulgentlytowhatshewassaying.
"The trouble is," he began, groping about in his limited vocabulary, "I don't
seemtowantanybodyelse'sGod.Ijustwanttogiveminefullswing."Andat
thispointheforgothisgrandmother'spresence,andhispreviousexperienceof
herincomprehension,andbegantodevelophisowndreamforhisownears.
"AndIdon'tevenwanttoknowwhatheis--notbyreasoninghimout,Imean.
Peopledidn'thavetowaittolearnaboutoxygen,andthewaythelungswork,
beforetheybegantobreathe,didthey?Andthat'sthewayIfeelaboutwhatI
callmygod--thesortofsomethinginmethatwastherebeforeI'deverthought
aboutit,andthatstretchesoutandout,andtakesinthestarsandtheages,and
verylikelydoesn'titselfknowwhyorhow.WhatIwantistofindouthowto
releasethatgod,flyhimuplikeakiteintotheInfinite,waybeyondcreedsand
formulas,andtrytorelatehimtoalltheother...theothercurrents...that
seemtobecirclingroundyou,adaylikethis...sothatyougetcaughtupin
themyourself...andcarriedbeyondTimeandSpace,andGoodandBad,to
wherethewholeblamedthingisboilingover...Oh,helltakeit,
_I_don'tknow!"hegroaned,andflunghisheadbackdespairingly.
Mrs.Scrimserlistened,beaming,benedictory,herarmsextended."OhVanny,
whenyoutalklikethatIdofeelyourcallsoclearly!Yousurelyhaveinherited
yourgrandfather'sgiftforspeaking.YoucouldfilltheAlsopAvenuechurch
clearawayunderthegallery,rightnow.'Theboypreacher'-
-theycanoftenreachrightdownintothesoulwheretheoldermencan'tgeta
hearing. Don't you think, dear, such a gift ought to make you decide to go
straighttoJesus?"Sheliftedherclaspedhandswitha"Nuncdimittis"gesture
fullofdevotionalsublimity."IfIcouldonlyhearyouinthepulpitonceI'dlay
medownsopeacefully,"shemurmured.
Vance's dream dropped with a crash to the floor of the porch, and lay there
betweentheminrainbowsplinters.TheAlsopAvenuechurch!Thepulpit!The
ministry!Thisfamiliarwayoftalkingabout"Jesus"asifHeweresomebody
waiting round the corner at Mandel's grocery for a telephone call--and this
woman, who had listened for forty years to her husband's windy eloquence
and sanctimonious perfidies, and who was still full of faith inthe power of
wordsandthemagicattributesofBiblicalphraseology!ItalmostmadeVance
hatethe Bibleto hearher, thoughitshaunting wordsand cadenceswerethe
richestofhismentalpossessions...
.Butwhyhadheagainlethimselfgo,tryingtocarryherupwithhimtothe
dizzyheightsofspeculation,asifsometinywingedinsectshouldstruggleto
liftthelawnmowerdownthereinthepath?Vancelookedsulkilyawayatthe
straggling unkempt distances from which she had managed to brush all the
magic,sothatwherehehadseenflowersandheardbirdshenowbeheldonly
a starved horizon imprisoned behind crooked telegraph poles, and partly
blottedoutbyMandel'sgrocery.
"Vance--Ihaven'tsaidanythingtooffendyou?"hisgrandmother questioned,
layingherbighandonhis.
Heshookhishead."No.Onlyyoudon'tunderstand."
Shetookoffhermoistspectaclesandwipedthem."Well,IguessGodcreated
womenso'stogivethemensomebodytosaythatto,"she remarked, with a
philosophicsmile.
Hergrandsonsmiledalso.Heneverfailedtoappreciateherhumour;buttoday
he was still quivering from his vain effort at expression, and her
misunderstandingofit;andhehadnothingmoretosay.
"Well,IguessI'llgoalong,"hesaid,gettingup.
Mrs.Scrimserneverarguedwithherownfamily,andshewalkedwithhimin
silence down the path and halted at the barricade of the mowing- machine.
From there they could look across a few vacant lots and, dodging Mandel's
grocery,bathetheireyesintheliquidgoldofthesunsetbeyondtheriver.
"I used to think heaven was down there--on summer nights!" the boy broke
out, pointing toward the budding maples by the river. In his own ears his
words sounded sardonic, incredibly old and embittered; but the mention of
heavencouldevokenosuchsensationsinhisgrandmother'ssoul.
"Iguessheaveniswherever weloveNatureandourfellowbeings enough,"
shesaid,layingherarmabouthisshoulder.Itoccurredtoneitherofthemto
removethemowerfromthepath,andtheypartedthere,casuallybutfondly,as
thehabitwasinEuphoriahouseholds,Vancebestridingthemachinewhilehis
grandmother, arrested by it, stood gazing after him. "Only remember that,
Vanny--that Love is everywhere!" she called after him. Large and full of
benedictionshestoodbetweenthelilacbushesandwavedfarewell.
Vancewalkedoninafogofformlessyearnings.Hisownwordshadloosened
them,asthespringairandtheyellowblossomsintheditchhadloosenedhis
words.TwilightfellandtheoldspellofCramptonfellwithit.Hepassedby
the lane that led to Harrison Delaney's, but when he came to the field path
descending to the river he paused, caught back into his early dream.
Everything which had bound him to that scene was over and done with--he
hadservedhissentimentalapprenticeshipandpaidtheprice.Butitwashard,
atnineteen,andonaspringevening,toknowthis,andtofeelhimselfforever
excludedfromthefellowshipoftheyoungandthehappy.Hesupposedother
fellowshadbeenthroughitandsurvived--inbookstheytoldyouso.Butthis
eveninghissoulwaslikeadesert.
He'dneverlookedatagirlsinceFloss--nevermeantto.Takenitoutinwriting
poetryinstead.Sometimes,forafewmoments,doingthatalmostreplacedher
caresses,seemedtobringherascloseasifwordswerewarmandpalpablelike
flesh.Thenthatillusionpassed,andhewasoutagaininthedesert....Oncein
awhile,bywayofexperiment,hewouldgivehimselfakindofmentalpinch
wheretheachehadbeen,justtobesurehefeltnothing--literallynothing.But
whenthetreesbytheriverbudded,andthebudswereblackagainstayellow
sky,theachewouldspringbackandcatchhimintheheartasyouseelumbago
suddenlycatchamanbetweentheshoulders.Foralongtimehestoodgazing
across the field and remembering how he used to go and hide down by the
river,andspyoutthroughthebushesforFloss.Or,oftener,she'dbetherefirst,
and her strong young arms would pull him down to her. . . . There was no
dangernowinrememberingthesethings.ShehadleftEuphoria;hehadheard
shehadajobinadepartmentstoreatDakin,ontheothersideofChicago.He
suspected his father of having managed that. . . . The scene of their brief
passionwasdeserted,andforhimitwouldalwaysremainso.Thatwaslife,he
supposed. His bitterness gradually passed; he remembered her kisses and
forgave her. Leaning on the fence, he pulled out a cigarette and thought big
manlythoughtsabouther,andaboutWomaningeneral.
"Well,"heinterruptedhimselfsuddenly,"Idon'tsupposeyouexpectedtobe
the only fellow to meet a girl down under those bushes, did you, Vance
Weston?"Theremarkwasprovokedbythesightofamansaunteringacross
lots to the edge of the maple grove. Even at that distance he had the air of
someonewhowouldassoonnotbeseen,butisdoingallhecannottobetray
thefact.ThesightinstantlyalteredVance'smood,andhecontinuedtoleanon
the fence, puffing ironically at his cigarette and whistling a vaudeville tune.
Thelightwasgrowingfaint,themanwas
almosttoofarawaytoberecognized;butasheapproached,Vancesawatall
sparefiguremovingwiththejauntinessofanelderlymantryingtolookyoung
whoisjerkedbackateverystepbyhisstiffjoints.Thegaitwasfamiliar;so,as
the figure drew still nearer, was the frock coat flung open from a crumpled
waistcoat,andthesombrerobrimofthefelthat.Presentlyheliftedthehatand
wiped his forehead; and the last slant of sunset lit up his swarthy face, the
dominant nose and weak handsome mouth, and the white-and-black mane
tossed back from his forehead. Vance, amused and vaguely curious, stood
staringattheapparitionofhisgrandfather.
YounevercouldtellaboutGrandpa--theyallknewitinthefamily,andputup
with the fact as you put up with the weather. Still, to come on him here,
slinkingalongontheedgeofthegrove,andmoppinghisforeheadasifhehad
been running to catch the trolley; well, it was funny. Something at once
dashingandfurtiveabouthisairmadeVancerememberanoccasionwhen,as
asmall boy, hehad gone Christmasshopping withhismother,andthey had
runintoGrandpa,moppinghisforeheadinthesameway,andhurryingtoward
themroundthecornerofacertainstreetthatVanceandhisschoolmateswere
always forbidden to play in. The little boy had instantly guessed that
somethingwaswrongwhenhismother,insteadofexclaiming:"Why,there's
Grandpa!"hadabruptlyrememberedthat,goodgracious,she'dneverordered
the yeast from Sproul's Bakery, and had jerked Vance back there without
seemingtonoticeMr.Scrimser.Suchsubterfugesaresignpostsontheroadto
enlightenment.
Vancecontinuedtosmilesardonicallyattheremembranceofthisepisode,and
thethoughtofhowfarbehindhimhisguilelessinfancylay.Foramomenthe
feltinclinedtohailhisgrandfather;thensomethingabouttheoldman'sairand
movementsmadehimdecidetoturnaway."Guessit'sabouttimetostepround
toSproul'sfortheyeast,"hechuckledtohimself;butasheavertedhisglance
itwasarrestedbytheapproachofanotherfigure.Thelightwasfailingfastand
Vancewasagoodhundredyardsfromtheriver;butinthethickestdusk,and
at a greater distance, he would have known the quick movements, the light
outline,ofthegirlslippingthroughthetreestowardMr.Scrimser...."Butshe
isn'there...sheisn'there...Iknowsheisn't!"stormedthroughtheboyina
rushofuselessdenial.Hestoodrootedtotheearthwhileeverythingshehad
everbeentohim,everylookandintonation,everyscentandbreathandtouch
that had bound him to her, and made them one, flooded over him in fiery
remembrance.Hehadneverbeenabletoimaginewhatexcruciatingphysical
painwaslike,thekindyoufeltwhenyouweresmashedunderatrain,ortorn
bya whirling engineina factory--butheknew,hefound out intheglare of
thatblindinginstant,thatwhenthesoulissmittendeeplyenoughitseemsto
becomeone
with the body, to share all the body's capacity for suffering a distinct and
different anguish in each nerve and muscle. He saw--or thought he saw--the
twofigurescometogetherinthedimness,justwhere,sooften,hehadcaught
FlossDelaneytohisfirstembrace;thenhestumbledaway,unseeing.Atrolley
swungalong,makingforthelightsofEuphoria.Hehaileditandgotonboard.
III
The family were at supper. The dining room was exquisitely neat. The
Lithuaniangirlshovedthedishesinhotthroughtheslideandsetthemdown
onthetablewithoutnoise:Grandpaalwayssaidhisyoungestdaughtercould
have taught an Eskimo to wait on table. The faces under the hanging lamp
reflectedsomethingofthecomfortandsatisfactionofthescene.Pearlhadgot
an advance of salary, and Mr. Weston had put through the sale of an old
businessbuildingatapriceevenhehadnothopedfor.
"I guess we'll take that vacation at the Lakes you girls are always talking
about," he said, and glanced about the table for approval. But Mrs. Weston
wrinkledhermouth(shefrownedwithhermouthasotherpeopledowiththeir
foreheads),andsaid,wouldn'ttheybetterlettheLakesalonethisyearandput
in that new electric cold-storage affair the drummer had called about day
before yesterday, and taken the measures for? He said they'd get it at a big
reduction if they gave the order now, and paid down a third of the amount
whenhecalledback.
Pearl, the eldest daughter, who was small and brisk, with a mouth like her
mother's,said,well,shedidn'tmuchcare,onlyshe'dliketoknowsometime
soonwhatthey'ddecided,becauseiftheydidn'tgototheLakesshethought
she'dgocampingwithafriendattheSchoolofHope,inSebaskaCounty;but
theyounger,Mae,whowastallerandlesscompact,withanuncertainpromise
ofprettiness,murmuredthattheothergirls'folksallgotawaytotheLakesfor
August,andshedidn'tseewhytheyshouldn'twithoutsuchafuss.
"Well, we've got you and Vance to fuss about, for one thing," Mrs. Weston
replied. "Here you are, seventeen and nineteen, and not knowing yet how
you'regoingtoearnyourliving,orwhenyou'regoingtobegin."
Mae,inanirritatedtone,rejoinedthatsheknewwellenoughwhatshewanted
todo;shewantedtogotoChicagoandstudyart,likeLeilaDuxberry--
"Oh, Chicago! There'll be an art school right here next year, in connection
with the college, just as good, and nothing like as expensive," said Mrs.
Weston,whowasalwaysjealousofanysignsofindependenceinherflock.
Mae shrugged, and cast her eyes toward the ceiling, as if to say that
conversationonanylowerlevelhadnofurtherinterestforher.
Mr. Weston drummed on the table, and took a second helping of pickles.
"Well, and what about Advance G. Weston, Esq.? Got any idea what you
planningtospecializein,sonny?"
Vanceopenedhislipstoanswer.Hehadalwaysknownthathisfatherwanted
himtobearealestateman,notonlywantedbutmeanthimtobe,indeedcould
not conceive of any other career for him, whatever the women said, or the
boy's own view of his vocation was, any more than a king on a well-
established throne could picture any job but kingship for his heir. The Free
SpeakerhadonceheadlinedMr.WestonastheKingofDrakeCountyRealtors
andMr.Westonhadacceptedthetitlewithamodestdignity.Vanceknewall
this;butthetimefortemporizingwasover.Hemeanttoanswerhisfatherthen
andthere,andtosay:"IguessI'dbettergoonanewspaper."Forhehadmade
uphismindtobeawriter,andifpossibleapoet,andhehadneverheardof
any way to Parnassus save that which led through the columns of the daily
press,andrangedfrombaseballreportstotheexposureofbusinessscandals.
Butashewasabouttospeak,somethinghotandchokingwelledupintohis
throat, and the brightly lit definite table with the dull definite faces about it
suddenlymeltedintoamist.
He pushed back his chair uncertainly. "I've got a headache--I guess I'll go
upstairs,"hemutteredtothewhirlingroom.Hesawthesurpriseintheirfaces,
and became aware of Pearl vaguely detaching herself from the blur and
moving toward him, anxious, inquisitive; but he pushed her back, gasping:
"Allright...don'tfuss...Oh,justleavemealone,can'tyou,allofyou?"and
gothimselfoutoftheroom,andupstairstohisown,wherehefellonhisbed
inastormofdrysobswithoutatear.
Twoofthedoctorssaiditwasamalarialmicrobe;possiblyhe'dbeenbittenby
ananophelesmosquitointhosemarshyfieldsouttowardCrampton,ordown
by the river. The third doctor, a bacteriologist from the college laboratory,
thoughtitwaswalkingtyphoid,andhemightlikelyasnothavepickeditup
drinking the river water, if he was in the habit of going out to Crampton--
familylivingthere?Oh,thatit?--Well,theCramptonwaterwasrankpoison;
theyhadagood manycases ofthesamesorteveryspringand summer.. ..
Thatdoctorwasneversentforagain;andthefamilynoticedthatLorinWeston
suddenly began to move once more in the matter of carrying the Euphoria
waterouttoCrampton.Thequestionwasalwaysatroublesomeone;whenever
it was raised it stirred up a hornet's nest of other matters connected with
municipalandstatepolitics,questionsofthelet-sleeping-dogs-liesort;andit
hadbeenarelieftoMrs.Westonwhenherhusband,thepreviousyear,toldher
hehadaskedtheEuphoriaFreeSpeaker(theleadingmorningpaper)todrop
theCramptonWaterSupplyInvestigation.TheFreeSpeakerhaddoneso,and
thenextweekMr.WestonhadboughtanewBuick,andremarkedattablethat
hedidn'tknowanygreaterwasteoftimethanmuckraking.Nowtheaffairwas
alltobegoneintoagain,andMrs.Westonknewitwasbecauseofwhatthat
otherdoctorhadsaid,theonewhohadnotbeenaskedtocomeback.Butshe
kept her own counsel, as she always did where business or politics were
concerned,andnursedherson,andtoldherhusbandnottobesonervousor
he'donlymaketheboyworse....
Vance caught a confused echo of this through the blur of those indistinct
weeks--weeks of incessant tossings of the body, incessant gropings of the
mind. The doctors said if it had been anybody but Mrs. Weston they'd have
taken him right off to the fever ward of the hospital; but with Mrs. Weston
theykneweverythingwouldbedonejustaswellasifhe'dbeenintheward,
thatthedisinfectionwouldbeattendedto,andthefeverchartaccuratelykept,
and folks not allowed to barge in. . . . So he had been moved into the
sepulchralspare room, which was the pride of Mrs. Weston's heart because
nobodyhadeverinhabitedit,oreverwould,andbecauseithadtakentheplace
ofthatawfulsanctuaryofheryouth,theunused"bestparlour."
A monthpassedbefore Vancewasstrong enoughtobe movedback intohis
ownroom.Helookedatitwithalieneyes.Hehadbeen"downtonormal"for
somedays,andthatmorningthedoctorshadtoldMrs.Westonthatshecould
unpinthechartfromthefootofthebed,andgivehimabitofbroiled
chicken.Heateithungrily,andthenlaybackintheunutterablewearinessof
recovery.
Hehadbeguntoseethefamilyagain:hisfatherfirst,awkwardandinarticulate
withtheaweofasorrowjustescaped;Pearlconciseandtactful,Maeasself-
engrossedasever,andhavingtobedraggedawaybyhermotherbecauseshe
stayedtoolongandtalkedtoomuch.Grandmawaslaidupwithrheumatism,
butsentmessagesandfresheggs,andtheannouncementthatshehadbeenin
constant communication with one of her household prophets, who was
conducting a "Spirit of Service" meeting at the neighbouring town of
Swedenborg,andthatVancehadbeenrememberedtheredailyintheprayers
oftheassistants.
Vancelistenedtoitallasthoughheweredeadandthefamilychattercameto
himthroughhismoundintheCedarcrestcemetery.Hehadnotknownforhow
long, after recovery from illness, the mind continues in the airless limbo
betweenlifeanddeath.
He was still drowsing there when his door opened, and he heard his
grandfather'sboomingvoice: "Say,oldfellow, Iguess you'vehad enoughof
thewomenprayingoveryoubythistime,haven'tyou,andit'llbuckyouup
sometoswapstoriesagainwithamanofyourownage."
Therehewas,intheroom,closetothebed,powerful,impending,theblack-
and-whitemanetossedbackboldlyfromhisswarthyforehead,thewhiteteeth
flashing through the straggling drop of his dyed moustache, the smell of
tobaccoandeaudecologneemanatingfromthefoldsofhissaggingclothes,
fromthetipofthehandkerchiefinhisbreastpocketandhislongdarkhands,
whichtheboysawspreadingoutoverhimasMr.Scrimserbentpaternallyto
thebed.
"Oh,Grandfather,don't--Isaydon't!"Vanceraisedhimselfonthepillows,the
sweat breaking out over his weak body, his arms defensively outstretched.
"Don't--don't!Goaway--goaway!"herepeatedwiththeweakcryofachild,
coveringhiseyeswithhishands.
He heard Mr. Scrimser's movement of recoil, and bewildered stammer, and
knewthatinanothermomentMrs.Westonorthegirlswouldbesummoned,
and he would be hemmed in again by fever charts, thermometers, and iced
compresses.Heloweredhishands,andsittinguprightlookedstraightintohis
grandfather'sevasiveeyes.
"You--youdamnedoldlecher,you,"hesaidinalowbutperfectlyfirmvoice.
Mr.Scrimserstared,andhestaredback.Graduallythegrandfather
lowered his piebald crest, and retreated across the narrow little room to the
door.
"You're--you'resickyet, Vanny. OfcourseI won'tstayif youdon't wantme
to,"hestammered.AsheturnedVancesaidtohimself:"He understands; he
won'tbothermeanymore."Hisheadfellbackonthepillows.
Forafewdayshewaslesswell.Thedoctorsaidhehadseentoomanypeople,
and Mrs. Weston relieved her nerves by lecturing her husband and Mae on
theirthoughtlessnessintiringtheboyout.Itoccurredtonoonetoincriminate
Mr.Scrimser,whohadjustpoppedhisheadinandmadeoneofhisjokes.Mrs.
Weston could have certified that her father had not been more than two
minutes in the room. Mr. Scrimser was noted in Euphoria as a professional
brightener-up.Hewasfulloftactinthesickroom,andingreatrequesttocheer
thelonghoursofconvalescence.Asheleftthehousehisdaughtersaid:"You
mustpopinagaintomorrow,Father,andgetalaughoutofVance";andMr.
Scrimserrejoinedinhisrollingvoice:"Youcancountonme,Marcia,ifhe's
nottoobusyreceivingvisitors."Buthedidnotreturn,andMrs.Scrimsersent
word that he had his sciatica back on him, and she was trying to see what
prayersatthe"SpiritofService"meetingswoulddo.
Onthethirddayafterhisgrandfather'svisit,Vance,whowasnowsittingupin
anarmchair,askedhismotherforpaperandhisfountainpen.Mrs.Weston,to
whomallliteraryactivities,eventothe mere writing of a letter, represented
untold fatigue, said protestingly: "What do you want to write for? It'll just
make your head ache." But Vance said he was only going to jot down
something,andshegavehimwhathewanted.Whenshewasgonehetookthe
pen,andwroteacrossthepaper:"Damnhim--Ihatehim--Ihate--hate--hate--"
Headdedalonglineofobsceneandblasphemousdenunciation.
His hand was still unsteady, but he formed the letters slowly and carefully,
with a sort of morbid satisfaction in the doing. He had fancied that writing
themoutwouldinsomemysteriouswaydispeltheawfulsenseofloneliness
whichhadrepossessedhimsincehehadcomebacktolife.Butafterhisfirst
burstofangerhefeltnorelief,anddroppedbackagainintothesolitudewhich
hadisolatedhimfromhiskindeversince theafternoonwhenhehadleaned
againstthefenceandlookedacrossthemaplegrovetotheriver.Yetreliefhe
musthave--andatonce--orchuck upthis too hideous business of living. He
closedhiseyesandtriedtopicturehimself,whenhewaswellagain,takingup
hisusualpursuitsandpleasures;andhe
turned from the vision, soul-sick. The fair face of the world had been
besmirched,andhefeltthefirstagonyofyouthatsuchprofanation.
The oppression was intolerable. He was like a captive walled into a dark
airlesscell,andthewallsofthatcellwereReality,werethelifehewouldin
futurebedoomedto.Theimpulsetoenditallhereandnowpossessedhim.
Hehadtriedoutthewholebusinessandfounditwanting;beentheroundofit,
and come back gorged with disgust. The negativeness of death would be
better,amilliontimesbetter.Hegottohisfeetandwalkedunsteadilyacross
the room to the door. He knew where his father's revolver was kept. Mrs.
Westonhadonlyoneweakness:shewasafraidofburglars,andherhusband
always had a revolver in the drawer of the night table between their beds.
Vance made his way along the passage, resting his hand against the wall to
steady his steps. The house was silent and empty. His mother and the girls
wereout,andtheLithuanianwouldbedownstairsinherkitchen.Hereached
hisparents'room,walkedfeeblytothetablebetweenthebeds,andopenedthe
drawer.Therevolverwasnotthere....
Vance'sbrainreeled.Hemighthavelookedelsewhere,mighthavehunted.
..butasuddenweaknessovercamehimandhesatdowninthenearestchair.
Wasittheweaknessofhisstate,orasecretreluctancetopursuehis
quest,theunconfessedfearthathemightfindwhathewaslookingfor?He
asked himself the question, and could not answer. But as he sat there he
becameconsciousthat,eveninthehaltingprogressfromhisroomtothe
spotwherehehadsupposeddeathwaited--evenduringthattransit,soshortin
space, so long in time, he had felt the arms of Life, the ancient mother,
reachingouttohim,windingabouthim,crushinghimfastagaintoher
greatcarelessbosom.Hewasglad--heknewnowhewasglad--thathehadnot
foundtheweapon.
He crawled back to his room and his armchair, pulled the blanket over his
knee, and sat there, faint and frightened. His heart was still beating
convulsively.Itwasincredible,whatacowardillnesshadmadeofhim.Buthe
was resolved not to be beaten, not to accept any makeshift compromise
betweenhisfearoflifeandhisworsefearofdeath.Iflifeitwastobe,well--
he'dlive!
The writing paper lay on the table at his side. He turned over the page on
which he had scrawled his senseless curses, and sat with his pen over the
blankpaper;then he wrote out, slowly and carefully,atthe top of the page:
"OneDay."Yes--thatwastherighttitleforthestoryhemeanttotell.Oneday
hadsufficedtodashhislifetopieces....
Hebeganhastily,feverishly,thewordsrushingfromhispenlikewaterfroma
long-obstructed spring, and as the paragraphs grew it seemed to him that at
last he had found out a way of reconciling his soul to its experiences. He
wouldsetthemdownjustastheyhadbefallenhiminalltheircruelveracity,
butasifhewererelatingthetragedyofsomebodyelse.
IV
Mrs. weston, turning over old Christmas cards in the course of the spring
cleaning(whichVance'sillnesshaddeplorablydelayed),cameononegivinga
view of Iceboating On The Hudson, and said: "Lucilla Tracy-- why, now, I
don'tknow'sanybody'severacknowledgedthatcard...."
ThedoctorssaidthatVanceoughttogetawayforthehotweather--clearaway,
toanewplacewithnewairandnewassociations.Nineteenwasanastyageto
have a shake-up of that kind, they said; it took time to build up a growing
bodyaftersuchatumble.Thefamily'dbetternottalktotheboyaboutlooking
roundforajobtilltheautumn--justlethimliefallowthroughthehotmonths,
somewherebytheseaifitcouldbemanaged.
TheseaseemedalongwayofftotheWestonfamily,andespeciallytoMrs.
Weston, who could never understand why anybody whose parlour windows
lookedoutonMapledaleAvenue,Euphoria,shouldeverwanttogoanywhere
else, even to Chicago. But she had been frightened about the boy, and her
husband,sheknew,wasfrightenedstill.Afterconsultationbetweenthetwoit
wasdecidedtoaskVancehimselfwherehewouldliketogo.Hisfatherputthe
question,andVanceimmediatelysaid:"NewYork."
The announcement was staggering. New York was almost as far away as
Europe;itwastentimesmoreexpensive;itwasashotinsummerasChicago;
itwasaplaceamanwenttowhenhe'dmadehispile;aplaceyoutookyour
family to for a week's blow-out when you'd been on the right side of the
market. It was Mr. Weston who piled up these definitions; his wife, with
nervousfrowninglips,remarkedthatsuchalongjourneywouldwearVance
out,anddoawaybeforehandwithallthegoodoftheresthehadbeenordered
totake;andthat,iftheseawastoofaroff,shedidn'tseewhy
theairoftheLakeswasn'tjustasbracing.Andtherehe'dhavethefamilyto
lookafterhim;ifhewent,thatwouldmakeFatherdecidetotakethemallto
theLakes,sheguessed.Shelookedatherhusbandinawaythatmadehimso
decideonthespot.
ButVancesaid,inthatpaleobstinatewayhehadacquiredsincehisillness:"I
wanttogotoNewYork.It'seasyenoughtogetdowntotheseafromthere."
Mr.Westonlaughed."Yes,butitain'tsodarnedeasytogettherefirst."Vance
was silent, and the family exchanged perturbed glances. But just then Mrs.
Scrimser came lumbering in, cured of her rheumatism (by the "Spirit of
Service"prayers--whichunhappilyhadnotsucceededwithherhusband),but
movingheavily,asusual,withasticktosupportherbigramblingframe.She
satdownamongtheminthesleepingporch,whereVancenowtookhisdaily
rest cure, listened to their perplexity, and said with her dreamy prophetic
smile:"There'sonlyonceinalifewhenanybodywantsoneparticularthingso
bad that nothing else on earth'll do instead. I wouldn't wonder if wanting a
thingthatwaywasn'taboutthenearestweevergettohappiness."Sheturned
hersoftlyhumorouseyesonhergrandson."IguessVanny'llhavetogoEast."
ItwasthenthatMrs.WestonrememberedhercousinLucillaTracy'spostcard.
"ThatplaceofLorburnTracy'sisn'tsofarfromNewYork,"sheremarked,"up
thereontheHudson.AndVance'dhavegoodcountryair,anyhow,andgood
milk.MaybeLucilla'dbegladtotakehiminasaboarderforafewweeks.I
don'tbelievethey'reanytoowelloff,fromwhatshesaidlasttimeshewroteto
me.SinceLorburn'sdeathIguesssheandthechildrenhavehadprettyhard
timesmakingthetwoendsmeet.Anyhow,Ioughttoanswerthatcard...."
Vancesaidnothing:thesuggestioncametohimasasurprise.Heknewthat
Paul'sLanding,wherehismother'scousinlived,wasnotaboveanhouranda
half by rail from New York, and his heart was beginning to beat excitedly,
thoughhemaintainedanairofindifference.
But Lorin Weston was not indifferent. He seized on the suggestion as an
unforseen way of indulging his son without too great an expenditure of
money--an important consideration in view of the heavy cost of Vance's
illness, and the complications and embarrassments likely to result from
Weston's move in raising again the vexed question of the Crampton water
supply.
"Say--why don't we ring Lucilla up right now," he suggested, getting to his
feet with the haste of a man accustomed to prompt solution. Mrs. Weston
raised no objection, and Mrs. Scrimser nodded approvingly. "That's great,
Lorin.IguessLucilla'llbeonlytooglad.HerboymustbeaboutVanny'sage,
mustn'the,Marcia?"Marciathoughthemust, and mother and daughter lost
themselvesinreminiscencesoftheearlyhistoryofLucillaTracy,whomthey
had not seen since she had come out on a visit to them at Advance, years
before,whenVancewasababy.TheTracyshadbeenwell-offthen,andthe
youngcouple hadbeen on theirwedding triptothe GrandCanyon, andhad
stoppedoffonthewaytoseethebride'swesternrelatives.Mrs.Scrimserand
Mrs. Weston recalled Lucilla as having been very pretty, with stylish New
York clothes; they thought Mr. Tracy's father owned a big "works" of some
sort,ontheHudson;andhehimselfwaseditoroftheprincipalnewspaperat
Paul'sLanding,wheretherehadalwaysbeenTracysandLorburns,sincelong
beforetheRevolution,sohetoldthem.
"Dearme,don'tittakeyourightbacktoHistoricTimes,hearingaboutthings
likethat?"Grandmaglowedreminiscently;butMrs.Westonshiveredalittleat
theopeningofsuchinterminablevistas.Shelikedtothinkofeverybodyliving
compactly and thrivingly, as she did herself, hemmed in by a prosperous
present, and securely shut off from the icy draughts of an unknown past. "I
guessthefamily'sgoingwaybacklikethatdon'talwayshelpthechildrento
go forward," she said sententiously; and at that very moment her husband
reappeared with an announcement which seemed to confirm her worst
suspicions.ItwassimplythattheTracyshadnotelephone.
No telephone! The Westons had never heard of such a case before. Mrs.
Westonbeganbysayingitcouldn'tbepossible,itmustbeamistake,theywere
alwaysmakingmistakesattheInformationoffice;hadLorinsaiditwasMrs.
LorburnTracy,atPaul'sLanding,NewYork?Washesurehe'dheardright?It
simplycouldn'tbe,shereiterated,beginningtothinkthatifitwere,theTracys
mustbe"peculiar,"andshewouldn'twanttotrustanychildofherstothem,
leastofallVance,aftersuchanillness.Shethoughtthey'dbettergiveupthe
ideaaltogether.
But Mrs. Scrimser was older, and her mind could reach back to days when,
evenintheenlightenedWest,shehadknowncasesofpeoplelivinginout-of-
the-wayplaces,orwhowerejustsimplytoopoor....
"But I don't want Vance to go to an out-of-the-way place. Suppose he was
sick,how'dtheyevergetholdofadoctor?"
"Well, if it's because they're not well enough off," her husband interrupted,
"it'llbeagodsendtothemtohaveVanceasaboarder,andIguess,fromwhatI
rememberofLucilla,she'llberealgoodtohim,andgetadoctorsomehow,as
quickashisownmotherwould."
Mrs.Westonlookedathimwitheringly."WhatyouknowofLucillaTracyis
exactlynothing,Lorin;andyousaythatonlybecauseyouremembershewas
pretty, and had on a showy pink dress with ruffles." But Mr. Weston,
unperturbed, said, well, he didn't know as those were such bad points in a
woman;andanyhowhe'dgoalongtothetelegraphofficeandwire,andthen
they'dsee.Heguessedthey'dbeprettywellabletojudgebytheanswer.
At the Grand Central Station, a week later, Vance was met by his young
cousin,UptonTracy.Uptonwasaspindlyboyofaboutsixteen,withwistful
grayeyesandapleasantsmile.HetoldVancehehadajobwithanurseryman
atPaul'sLanding,butthemanagerhadlethimofffortheafternoonsothathe
couldcometoNewYorktomeethiscousin.
VancehopedthatUptonwouldnotseehowgladhewastobemet.Hewasstill
weakafterhisillness,andthelongrailwayjourney--thefirstofthatlengththat
hehadever taken--had exhausted himmorethanhe had expected. When he
gotintothetrainatChicagohisheartwasbeatingsoexcitedlyattheideaof
seeing New York that he had nearly forgotten all his disgusts and
disillusionments,andhadsecretlymadeuphismindtostopoverforanightin
themetropolisbeforegoingontojoinhisrelativesatPaul'sLanding.Butnow,
inhistiredstate,andoppressedashewasbythesenseofinferiorityproduced
by untired conditions and surroundings, he felt unequal to coping with this
hugetoweringwildernessofmasonrywhereVanceWestonofEuphoriawasof
nomore accountto anyoneamong thethousandsinhabitingitthan asingle
raindroptotheocean.
He had been furious with his mother for suggesting that one of the Tracys
should meet him at the station in New York, and had sworn that he would
neveragainlethisfamilytreathim like a "softy"; but when Upton's wistful
faceappearedintheheedlessindifferentthrongontheplatform,Vancefeltthe
relief of a frightened child that has lost its way. "Comes of being sick," he
grumbledtohimselfashiscousinpointedto theredcarnationwhichwas to
identifyhim. Vance, who, at Euphoria, would have condescended totheshy
boyathisside,nowfeltstillshyerhimself,andwasgratefulto
Uptonforhavingsolittletosay,andforassumingasamatterofcoursethat
theywerejusttowaitinthestationtillthenexttrainleftforPaul'sLanding.
Luckilyitleftinhalfanhour.
His mother had said: "You just let me know if you see anything over there
that'ssomuchbetterthanEuphoria,"andhehadsmiledandmadenoanswer.
Buttherequestcamebacktohimwithashockofsomethinglikehumiliation
whenheandUptonsteppedoutofthestationatPaul'sLanding.Therewasthe
usual bunch of Fords waiting there, and next to them, under the pale green
shadeof some crooked-boughed locust trees, a queer- looking group of old
cartsandcarryalls,withdroopinghorsesswishingoffthefliesandmournfully
shakingtheirheads.ThescenewaslikesomethinginafilmoftheCivilWar,
one of those films that were full of horses with swishing tails and draggly
manes. One of the horses, the oldest and mournfullest looking, with a
discolouredwhitemanelikeasmoker'sbeard,wastiedtoachewed-offpost;
Uptonwentupandunhitchedhim,andthehorseshookhisheadinmelancholy
recognition.
"We'reagoodwayfromthetrolley,sooneoftheneighbourslentmehisteam
tocomeandgetyou,"Uptonexplained,liftingVance'sluggageintotheback
ofabuggywhichseemedatleastcoevalwiththehorse.Vancecouldnothave
walkedastepatthatmoment,muchlesscarriedthesmallestofhistwobags,
sohewasgratefultotheunknownneighbour;butwhenherememberedhow,
ifyouwenttostaywithachumatSwedenborgorDakin,oranywhereinhis
homestate,youbuzzedawayfromthestationinaneatFord(ifitwasn'tina
stylishChevroletorthefamilyBuick),asenseofdejectionwasaddedtohis
profound fatigue. His mother had said: "You wait and see--" and he was
seeing.
The old horse jogged them through Paul's Landing, a long crooked sort of
townonahighridge,withgardensfullofbigtrees,andturfybankssloping
downfromramblingshabby-lookinghouses.Nowandthenanarrowerstreet
dipped downhill to their left, and Vance caught a glimpse of lustrous gray
watersspreadinglakeliketodistanthills."TheHudson,"Uptonsaid,flicking
hisstumpofawhip;andatthemomentthenamestirredVancemorethanthe
sight of the outspread waters. They drove on down a long street between
shops,garages,businessbuildings,allmoreorlesspaintlessanddilapidated,
withsaggingawningsloweredagainsttheprematurespringheat; then uphill
alongaruttylanebetweentreesandsmallframehousesevenshabbierthanthe
others,thoughsomehadpretty flowers before them, and lilacs and syringas
bloomingmorerichlythanGrandmaScrimser's.
"Thisisit,"saidUpton,inavoicestillshyerandmoreapologetic."It"wasa
small wooden house, painted dark brown, with the paint peeling off, and a
broken-down trellis arbour in a corner of the front yard. There were shade
treesoverthehouse,andastragglingroseontheverandah;buttheimpression
madebythewholeplace was of something neglected and dingy, something
leftinabackwater,likethesadDelaneyhousefromwhichVancestillaverted
histhoughts.
"You seemto have lotsof treesaroundeverywhere," heremarkedto Upton,
wishinghecouldthinkofsomethingmorestrikingtosay.
"Aren'tthereasmanyoutyourway?"Uptonrejoined.
"I dunno," Vance mumbled, suddenly on his guard against admitting any
inferiorityinEuphoria,even totheamountofshade affordedbyits trees."I
supposethey'rejustdifferent--thewayeverythingelseis,"headded.
Mrs. Tracy, who now appeared on the doorstep, was certainly different--not
onlyfromthegaybrideinshowypinkwhohaddazzledherwesternrelatives
onherweddingtour,butalsofromanyofthewomenofVance'sfamily.She
was small and slight, like Mrs. Weston, but without the latter's sharpness of
outline and incisiveness of manner. There was something fluctuant and
shadowyaboutMrs.Tracy,astherewasaboutherovershadeddooryard;but
she had a kind of phantom prettiness, something seen through a veil not so
much of years as of failure. She looked, not careless of her beauty, like
Grandma Scrimser, but disheartened about it, as Vance suspected she was
abouteverythingelseinlife.Butthesweetnessofhersmileofwelcomewas
somethinghisownmothercouldnothavecompassed."Iguessit'llbeallright
here,"Vancethought,hiscontractednervesrelaxing.
"You look very tired; the journey must have been awful. Come right in and
havesomesupper,"Mrs.Tracysaid,slippingherarmthroughhis.
It was funny--but pleasant, too, as a novelty--sitting around a table lit by a
queersmellyoillampwithanengravedglobeonit,inalittlediningroomwith
a dark brown wallpaper and an unwieldy protruding sideboard which had
evidentlybeenpickedupatabargainbecauseitwouldn'tfitinanywhere.Mrs.
Tracysatopposite,smilingatVancewistfullyacrosstheteacups,andasking
gentle questions about everybody out at Euphoria. She remembered what a
prettylittlehousetheWestonshadlivedinatAdvance,whenshe'dgonethere
onherhoneymoon,andVancewasababy;andwhenVancesmiledawayher
commendation,andsaidthey'dgotamuchbiggerhousenowatEuphoria,she
repliedthatshesupposedhismother'd
made it all lovely, and then rambled off to questions about the wonderful
GrandmaScrimserandAuntSaidieToler.Vancenoticedthatsheremembered
a great deal more about all of them than they did about her, and he said to
himself that she had what Grandma Scrimser called a Family Bible sort of
mind.
Upton dropped into the seat between his mother and Vance, and while the
mealwasinprogressathinfairgirlinapaleblueblouseandaveryshortskirt
wandered into the room, shook hands awkwardly with the newcomer, and
seatedherselfintheremainingchair.
"LauraLou'salwayslate--aren'tyou?"Mrs.Tracysaid,inhertoneofsmiling
acceptance."Ipresumeyoursistersaren'talwaysontimeformeals,arethey,
Vance?"
Vancelaughed,andsaidno,theydrovehismotherwildsometimes,andLaura
Loulaughed too, but withoutlookingat him, though hisoneglimpse of her
heavy-liddedgrayeyeswiththickdarklashesmadehimdesirousofanother.
Herface,however,wasnotpretty;toodrawnandthin,likeherbrother's,and
with rather high cheekbones which Vance thought ugly, and ash blonde hair
flopping untidily over her forehead. She was not more than fifteen, he
conjectured,anageessentiallyuninterestingtohim;andassherefusedtotalk,
and drooped her head sheepishly over her plate of cold meat and potatoes
(whichhesawshehardlytouched),Vance'sattentionsoonwanderedfromher.
He had reached the stage of fatigue when everything about one is at once
excitingandoppressive,andinspiteofhisfriendlyfeelingtowardhishostshe
longeddesperatelyforsolitudeandsleep.
Butsleepwasafterallimpossible.Itwasnotthemustyshut-upsmellofhis
queerlittleroom,northesurpriseofbeingunabletohaveahotbathafterhis
long cindery journey (the Tracy water supply being as primitive as their
lightingandtheirmeansoflocomotion);whatkepthimawakewassomething
stronger even than youth's exhaustless faculty of self-repair, of sleeping
through,andinspiteof,anynumberofanxietiesanddiscomforts--aburning
inward excitement shadowed but not overcome by his sense of vague
disappointment.
VancedidnotknowexactlywhathehadexpectedoftheEast,exceptageneral
superabundanceofallthethingshehadbeentaughttoadmire--tallerhouses,
widerstreets,fresherpaint,moremotors,telephones,plumbing,thanEuphoria
possessed,orcouldeverimagineachieving.Yetherehewasinatowncloseto
New York, and in a house belonging to people of his own standing--and he
had been brought thither in a broken- down buggy, and the house was the
shabbiesthehadeverseenexcept
HarrisonDelaney's,withnoneoftheconveniencesofcivilizedlife,andkindly
peoplewhoappearedtoousedtodoingwithoutthemtomakeanyexcusefor
theirabsence.Vanceknew,byhearsay,ofpoverty;butalmostallthepeoplehe
had grown up among, if not as prosperous as his own family, were at least
beyond any appearance of want; or rather, what they wanted, and felt the
privation of, and hustled around to get were luxuries evidently not even
aspiredtobytheTracys.Vancesupposeditcamefromthemysteriouslackof
vitalityhefeltinbothMrs.Tracyandherson;perhapsifMr.Tracyhadn'tdied
yearsagoitwouldhavebeendifferent.Certainlytheywouldn'thavegoneon
eversincelivinginthesameplaceandthesamehouse--proofinitselfofan
absenceofinitiativewhichnoEuphoriancouldunderstand.No,ifMr.Tracy
had lived he would have got Upton onto a better job by this time (they left
truckgardens toPolesand DagoesatEuphoria),andhe himselfwouldhave
gotadriveon,andmovedtoaliveplace,anddonesomethingtolifthisfamily
to the level where electric light, hot water, the telephone, a wireless, and a
Fordinacementgaragearenolongerprivilegesbutnecessities.
NotthatVancewasa"softy";hewouldhavebeenindignantatthesuggestion.
Holiday camping in the backwoods had not only made him familiar with a
roughlifeintheopenbutgivenhimapassionatetasteforit.WhenAmerica
hadenteredthewar,Euphoria,truetoherslogan--"MefortheFrontRow"--
hadalsoentereditwithenergy,andVance,agedfifteen,haddrilled,shouted,
andscoutedwithalltheotherboys.Twoorthreetimessincethenhehadgone
withhisfatherprospectinginremotedistricts,insearchofrealestateventures
of a speculative kind, and they had lodged in the roughest of farmhouses,
miles away from telephone or city water, and Vance had gloried in the
discomfortandenjoyedhismorningwashunderthepump.Butthatwasinthe
wilderness, the new country not yet captured and tamed by business
enterprise; whereas Paul's Landing was like a place that enterprise of every
sorthadpassedby,asifallitsinhabitantshadsleptthroughthewholeperiod
ofindustrial developmentwhich Vance Westonhad beentaughtto regardas
humanity'ssupremeachievement.IfEuphoriavaluesweretherightones--and
hehadnootherstoreplacethemwith--thenthepeoplewhodidnotstrivefor
them were predestined down-and-outers, as repugnant to the religion of
businessasthethiefandtheadulterertothereligionofChristianity.Andhere,
in the very part of his immense country which represented all that western
wealthstroveforandwesternambitiondreamedof,Vancefoundhimselfina
community apparently unaware that such strivings and ambitions existed.
"Seems as if they'd all slept right round the clock," Vance thought,
remembering the torpid look of the main street, its draggled awnings and
horse-drawnvehicles,andbeginningtofeelasiftheTracyhousewerenot
an isolated phenomenon but part of some huge geological accident. "As if
they'd been caught centuries ago under a landslide, and just gone on living
there, like those toads they find alive inside a stone--" and on this confused
analogytheyoungtravellerfellasleep.
V
Vancesleptnearlyaslongashehadmetaphoricallyaccusedtheinhabitantsof
Paul'sLandingofdoing.Whenhewokehesawapatternofripplingfoliageon
theceilingofhisroom,andabarofsunlightlyingacrossthefloor.Theairthat
cameinthroughthewindowwassultrywithheat,andfliesbuzzedagainstthe
pane. Looking about him at the streaked and faded wallpaper, his clothes
heapeduponabroken-downverandahchair,andthewaterjugwithachipped
spoutonthe old-fashioned washstand, he felt a qualm of homesickness,and
thoughtlonginglyofthespringsunsetsacrossthefieldsatCrampton,andthe
perfumeofhisgrandmother'sneglected lilacs. So strong was the impression
thattheperfumewasactuallyinhisnostrils.Heraisedhimselfonhiselbow,
andthere,onthepillow,layasprayofwhitelilac,fillingtheroomwithJune.
"Well, that's nice of them," Vance thought, burying his face in the ivory-
colouredclusters.Herememberedhisgrandmother'soncesaying,astheysat
ontheCramptonporchonahotJuneevening:"Iguessthatboxofointment
MaryMagdalenbrokeoverourLord'sfeetmusthavebeenmadeoutoflilacs,"
andhehadlikedthefancy,andwishedheknewhowtomakeapoemoutofit,
richandheavywithperfumedwords.Hisgrandmother'srandomfanciesoften
stirredhisimaginationinthisway.
Upton,hesupposed,orperhapsMrs.Tracy,musthavecomeinwhilehewas
asleep,anddroppedthefloweronhispillowbecausehehadtoldthemthere
werelilacsatGrandmaScrimser's."Uptonmostlikely,"hemused."Goodlittle
fellow--seemstohavegardens on the brain." He took another deep whiffof
the flower, tumbled out of bed, filled the cracked basin with water, and
plunged his head into it. After that the currents of activity reawoke, and he
hurriedthroughhiswashinganddressing,impatienttobedown,forhiswatch
told him it was after midday, and he was ashamed to be so late on his first
morning.
His window looked out on the back of the house. Close to it were the trees
which had drawn their fitful pencillings on the ceiling above his bed; and
beyond was a small patch of vegetables, divided in oblongs by currant and
gooseberrybushes,andfencedofffromothervegetablegardenswhichsloped
up the hillside to the irregular fringes of a wood. More trees--trees
everywhere, trees taller, fuller and more heavy-branched, he thought, than
those of his native prairies. Up the hillside they domed themselves in great
bluish masses, one against the other, like the roofs of some mysterious city
builtofleaves.Vancewaspleasedwiththatfancytoo,andwouldhavelikedto
stopand putit intoverse,aswellas hisgrandmother'sideaaboutthelilacs.
Therhymingfaculty,longabeyant,stirredinhimagainunderthespellofthe
unfamiliarscene,andthecaressofthesummermorning,andheforgotabout
hishastetoleavehisroom,andhisscrupleslestbreakfastshouldhavebeen
keptforhim,andsatdownatthetableinthewindow,pullinghispenanda
scrapofpaperfromhispocket.Sincehislittle-boyhoodhispocketshadnever
beenwithoutscrapsofpaper.
"Arcane,aloof,andsecretasthesoul--"Helikedthat,forthefirstlineofthe
poemaboutthecitybuiltofleaves,whichwasofcourseaforest.Secretasthe
soul.Thereweretimeswhenhisownsoulwaslikeaforest,fullofshadows
and murmurs--arcane, aloof--a place to lose one's way in, a place fearsome,
almost,tobealonein.Andthen:secret.Thattoowastrue.Heoftenfeltasif
hisownsoulwereastrangerinsideofhim,astrangerspeakingalanguagehe
hadneverlearned,orhadforgotten.Andthereagainwasagoodidea;theidea
of the mysterious stranger within one's self, closer than one's bones and yet
withafaceandspeechforeverunknowntoone.Hisheartwasbeatingwitha
rush of inarticulate eloquence, words and waves of feeling struggling to fit
intoeachotherandbecomethoughtandmusic.
"Heavywithallthescentofsummersgone--"howwouldthatdoforthelilac?
No, too heavy. He wanted to say that the mere scent of the lilac was rich
enoughfor bees tomakehoneyout of it;tosay that lightly, whirringly, like
beeshummingaboutbeforetheysettle.Andthenoneorgannoteattheclose,
wheretheboxofointmentisbroken,andChristlikenstheMagdalen'sgesture
totheperfumeofholiness,thelovelyfragranceitshouldgiveout,butsooften
doesnot.Scentlessholiness...theretoowassomethingtowriteabout.How
oneimagebeckonedanother!Andhecouldn'tstopthem,oftencouldn'tdetain
themlongenoughtotracetheirlineamentsbeforetheyvanished....
He scribbled on in the stuffy untidy room, beside his tumbled bed, the flies
bangingagainstthewindowpane,thebarofhotsunlightwheelingslowly
across the wall, scribbled on oblivious of time and place, of his wholesome
morning hunger, of the fact that he was in a strange household where his
nonappearance might be inconvenient or perplexing. Words for one poem,
thenfortheother,continuedtosurgeup,mingling,confusedandexciting,in
hishalf-awakenedbrain.Sometimeshelingeredononeforthesakeofitsown
beauty,andsuddenlyanewpoemwouldbudfromit,asifthewordhadbeena
seed plunged into the heated atmosphere of his imagination. Disconnected,
unmeaning, alluring, they strung themselves out on one bit of paper after
another,tillhethrewdownhispenandburiedhisrumpledheadinhishands.
Throughhisdreamheheardaknock,andstartedup.ItwasMrs.Tracycoming
inwithacupofcoffee.Hemustn'tmindabouthavingsleptsolong,shetold
him at once--it was the best thing for him, after his illness and the long
journey."Sleepistheyoungpeople'sbestdoctor,"shesaidwithoneofhersad
smiles."Butyoudidn'teatmuchlastnight,andyou'dbetterdrinkthiscoffee
rightoff,whileit'shot.Itwon'tkeepyoufromwantingyourdinnerbyandby,
Ihope." She put thetraydownbeside him whilehestammeredhis excuses,
andwenton,inthesamefriendlytone,withaglanceatthelitterofpaperat
his elbow: "If you've got any work to get through, I guess you'll be cooler
down on the back porch than here; there's a little breeze from the river. We
alwaysgetoneoftheseheatwavesinJune."
Vance thanked her, and said he would come down at once, and she added,
designatingthelilacblossominhiscoat:"ButIseeyou'vebeendownalready,
haven'tyou?You'relikeme--youlovelilacs."
"Thenitwasn'tshewhobroughtit,"hethought;andanswered,colouring,that,
yes,hethoughttheyhadthebestsmellofanyflowerheknew,buthehadn't
beendownyet,andheguessedUptonmusthavebroughttheflowerinwhile
hewassleeping.
Mrs.Tracy,hethought,colouredalittletoo;therewasahintofsurpriseinher
eyes."Why,maybehedid,"sheacquiesced;andslidawayonhersoftsoles,
leavinghimtohisbelatedcoffee.
The day passed uneventfully. In spite of his long sleep Vance still felt the
wearinessofconvalescence,andtheexcitementofhischangedsurroundings.
Disappointmentalso,thefeelingthathewassomehowbeing
cheatedoutofhoped-forexperiences,oppressedhistirednervesandlefthim
forthemomentwithoutinitiative,so that after dinner he was glad to accept
Mrs.Tracy'ssuggestionthatheshouldreturntothebackporchandstretchout
inthehammock.
Uptonhadhurriedhomefordinner,thenurserywherehewasemployednot
beingfaraway;butLauraLou'sseatwasempty.Mrs.Tracyexplainedthatshe
usuallyreturnedfromschoolforthemiddaymeal,butthatshehadacceptedan
invitationfromafriendthatday,andwouldnotbebacktillevening.
Upton,hisshynesswornoff,talkedeagerlyabouthiswork;hisemployerwas
hybridizing gladioluses, he explained, and also experimenting in crosses
betweenJapaneseandEuropeantree-peonies.Allthisevidentlymeantnothing
toMrs.Tracy, whohada stocksetofquestionsready (Vance perceived) for
both of her children, and had learned how to interrogate Upton about his
horticultural experiments, and Laura Lou about her studies, without
understanding their answers, or even affecting to. She struck Vance as a
womanwhohadlivedallherlifeamongpeoplewhoselanguageshecouldnot
speak,andhadlearnedtocommunicatewiththembysigns,likeadeaf-mute,
whileministeringwatchfullytotheirmaterialneeds.
HavingsettledVanceinthehammockshewentoffwith a slatternly woman
whocameinfromoneofthenexthousestohelpwiththewashing;andVance
layinthewarmshade,anddozed,orlethismindwanderoverhishalf-written
poems. But whenever he tried to write poetry nowadays the same thing
happened: after the first few lines, which almost wrote themselves, the
inspirationdiedout,orratherhefeltthathedidn'tknowwhattosaynext--that
ifhismindhadcontainedmoreofthestuffofexperience,wordswouldhave
flocked of their own accord for its expression. He supposed it must take a
gooddealofexperiencetofurnishthematerialforevenafewlinesofpoetry;
andthoughhewasnotpreparedtoadmitthatverylittlehadhappenedtohim,
hecouldnotbutrememberthathewasonlynineteen,andthattherehadnot
beentimeyetforanygreataccumulationofevents.HefinishedtheMagdalen
poemaboutthelilacs,buthaltingly,theexpressionflaggingwiththevision--
andwhenitwasdoneheleanedback,litacigarette,andthoughtwithasmile
whathisrestlessinquisitivesisterMaewouldhavesaidifshehadknownhow
hewasspendinghisfirstdaywithinreachofNewYork."Well,I'llgetthereall
thesame,andgettoanewspaperofficetoo,"hethought,settinghisteethina
lasteffortatdoggednessbeforesleeponcemoreovercamehim.
ThateveningatsupperLauraLouagaincameinlate.Sheworeafadedyellow
muslin which became her, and looked flushed and animated; but she
contributednomoretotheconversationthanonthepreviousday.Mrs.Tracy
seemed tired, and more discouraged than ever--Vance supposed it was the
washing.Whensupperwasover,andtheyweregoingbacktotheporch,she
saidsheguessedshe'dgotobedearly;andwouldUptonbesuretoremember
to put out the lamp in the hall, and fasten the door chain when they went
upstairs?Uptonsaidhewould,andMrs.Tracyturnedbacktospeakthrough
thewindowofthediningroom,whereshewasclearingthetableunaidedby
eitherofherchildren."Don'tforgetnow,Upton;tomorrow'sSaturday,andit's
theWillowsafternoon."
"Allright,Mother;Iwon't."
"You say that; and then you get home hours late for dinner," his mother
insisted nervously. "I wouldn't wonder if Miss Halo came down herself
tomorrow,"sheaddedinananxioustone.
"Oh,no,shewon't--notinthisheat."
"Youalwayssaythattoo,Upton;andthenwhenyouleastexpectit,shedoes
come, or Mrs. Spear does, and you're not there when they arrive. And of
coursetheywanttoknowwhereyouare,andifwemeantokeeponwiththe
job or not; and I get all the blame. And I don't see how I can get to the
Willowsmyselftomorrow,withalltheironingstilltodo...."
"Well,youneedn't,Mother.LauraLou'llhavetogowithme;that'sall.""Oh,
willI?"murmuredLauraLou.Shespokeunderherbreath,butloud
enoughforVancetohear,asshesatinthesummerdarknessclosetothe
hammocktowhichhehadreturned.
"Yes,LauraLou'llhaveto.Youwill,darling?"Mrs.Tracy,withoutwaitingfor
the answer, which she perhaps feared would be negative, picked up a
candlestickfromthesideboardandslowlymountedthestairs.
Leftalone,theyoungpeoplerelapsedintosilence.Uptonwasevidentlytired
by his day's work, and Vance was embarrassed by the presence of an
inarticulateschoolgirlwhoserepliestohisremarkstooktheformofanervous
giggle."Iwishhermother'dmadehergotobedtoo,"hethought.Heoffereda
cigarettetoUpton,andthenheldoutthepackettoLauraLou,whoshookher
headwithanothergiggle.
"She'stried,buttheymadehersick,"saidUptoncruelly.
"Oh,Upton--"
"Well,theydo."Herfacewrinkledupasifshewereabouttocry.Tochange
the subject, Vance questioned: "What did your mother mean by tomorrow
beingtheafternoonfortheWillows?WhataretheWillows?"
Uptonansweredindifferently:"It'soldMissLorburn'splace,outtheotherside
ofPaul'sLanding.Nobody'slivedtheresinceshedied,agesago,andshelefta
funnywill,andwehavetogooutonceafortnightandseetothehousebeing
aired and the knickknacks dusted. There's a sort of hired man lives on the
place,butheisn'tallowedintoMissLorburn'srooms,andMotherandIhave
toseethatthey'rekeptclean,andjustthewaysheleftthem."
"WasthisMissLorburnarelativeofyourfather's?"
"Oh, very distant, I guess. She left the place to one of her nephews, an old
bachelorwhonevercomesthere;andit'shewhoarrangedforMothertokeep
aneyeonthings."
Vancemeditated,hisinterestbeginningtostir."Whatsortofaplaceisit?""I
don'tknow,nothingparticular.Justanoldhouse."
Anoldhouse!Uptonspoke the words indifferently, almost contemptuously:
theyseemedtosignifynothingtohim.ButtheystirredVance'sblood.Anold
house!Itoccurredtohimthathehadneverseenareallyoldhouseinhislife.
ButUptonwasyoung--agooddealyoungerthanhimself.Whatdidhemean
bytheepithet?HisperspectiveswereprobablyevenshorterthanVance's.
"Howold?Asoldasthishouse?"Vancequestioned.
"Oh,agesolder.Myfatherusedtogotherewhenhewasalittleboy.Itwasan
old house then. He could just remember seeing old Miss Lorburn, Mother
says.Shelivedtobeveryold.Shewasafriendofmygrandfather's,Ibelieve.
It'sadrearyplaceanyhow.LauraLouhatesit.Shesaystheroomsarefullof
ghosts, and she's scared of it. But I say it's because she hates missing her
Saturdayafternoonatthemovies."
"Upton--"LauraLouagainprotested.
"Well,youdo.AndMotherdon'tlikeyoutogototheWillowsbecauseyou
breakthings.Butyou'llhaveto,tomorrow."
LauraLou madenoanswer, andVancepursued hisinterrogatory."Andwho
arethoseladiesyourmotherspokeabout,whocomeinandraisearow?"
"Oh, Mrs. Spear and her daughter. Mrs. Spear was a Lorburn. They won't
come tomorrow--not in this heat. If they're here--and I'm not sure they are
anyhow--"
"Here?AtPaul'sLanding?"
"Well, they live up at Eaglewood, another Lorburn place, a couple of miles
fromhere,upthemountain.There'sagrandviewoftheriverfromthere.It'sin
theguidebooks.Andthey'resupposedtocomedowntotheWillowsnowand
then,andkeepaneyeonus,thewaywedoonthehiredman."
"HowmanyLorburnplacesarethereroundhere?"
"TheyownedprettynearthewholeplacebeforetheRevolution.Nowthere's
onlythesetwohousesleft."
"Isupposetheyhadabigrealestateboom,andgotridofeverything?"Upton
chuckledincredulouslyinthedusk."Idon'tbelievethere'severbeen
muchboomofanykindabouttheLorburns.Theyjustgotpoorerand
pooreranddiedoff,Iguess."
Vance was genuinely puzzled. "Well, I don't see why they couldn't have
workedupaboomandunloadedthestuffonsomebody,"hemurmured.Then
he remembered Harrison Delaney's incapacity in the same line, and his
grandmother'scausticcommentsonoldfamiliesthathaveruntoseed.Hewas
glad that no aristocratic blood clogged his own lively circulation, and that,
anyhow,therewerenooldfamiliesinago-aheadplacelikeEuphoria.
Uptongotupandstretchedhisthinarmsabovehishead."Well,I'mgoingto
getamoveontowardbed.Itwasabout150inthatfernhousethisafternoon."
Hegropedhiswaybetweenthem,andwentintothehall,bangingthescreen
door after him in the instinctive defence against mosquitoes. From where
VancelayinthehammockhecouldseeUptonputthechainacrossthefront
door,andboltit.
Suddenly,closetohiminthedarkness,heheardLauraLousay:"You'vehad
thatoldlilacinyourbuttonholeallday.Itsmellsallfaded."Shebentabove
himandsnatcheditoutofhiscoat.Instinctivelyheputuphishand
topreventher;hispoemhadmadethewitheredblossomsacred."Oh,don't-
-" But his hand, instead of the lilac, caught her soft fingers. They quivered,
frightened yet entreating, and the warmth of her touch rushed through him,
tempting, persuading; but she was no more than a little girl, awkward and
ignorant,andhewasunderhermother'sroof.Besides,ifithadnotbeenfor
the heat and the darkness, and his mood of sensuous lassitude, he did not
believethateventhe touchof hersoftskin wouldhave rousedhim;theraw
flapperhadnocharmforhisunripesenses.
"Here--give it back! Listen to me, Laura Lou!" But she sprang out of reach
withoneofhermaddeninggiggles,andheletherhandgo,andthelilacwith
it,indifferently.
Upton came clumping back to the porch. "Going up to bed too?" he asked.
Vanceassentedandtumbledoutofthehammock."Allright.ThenI'llputthe
lampout.Comealong,LauraLou."ToVanceheadded:"Motherleftacandle
ontheupperlanding,"andhereacheduptotheswinginglamp,pulleditdown,
andfilledthepassagewiththestenchofitsextinction.LauraLouhadalready
slippedupaheadofthemtohermother'sroom.
BOOKII
VI
"It'shere,"Uptonsaid.
VancehadjokinglyofferedtoaccompanyUptontotheWillows,andhelphim
todustMissLorburn'srooms,sothatLauraLoushouldnotmissthemovies.
ButLauraLou,flushingcrimson,repliedinafrightenedwhisperthatitwasn't
true,thatshewantedtogototheWillows,thatshealwaysdid
gowhenhermothercouldn't--soVancehiredabicycleatanearbygarage,and
thethreecousinssetout.
Uptonstoppedbeforeapadlockedgateoverhungwithtrees.Adeepgreenlane
led up to it, so rutty and grass-grown that the cousins, jumping from their
bicycles,climbeditonfoot.Uptonpulledoutakey,unlockedthepadlockof
thegate,and led the way in, followed by Vance and Laura Lou. The house,
whichwaspaintedadarkbrown,stoodattheendofashortgrass-growndrive,
itsfrontsoveiledintheshoweringgold-greenfoliageoftwoancientweeping
willowsthatVancecouldonlycatch,hereandthere,ahintofasteeproof,a
jutting balcony, an aspiring turret. The façade, thus seen in trembling
glimpses, as if it were as fluid as the trees, suggested vastness, fantasy, and
secrecy. Green slopes of unmown grass, and heavy shrubberies of unpruned
syringa and lilac, surrounded it; and beyond the view was closed in on all
sides by trees and more trees. "An old house--this is the way an old house
looks!"Vancethought.
Thethreewalkedupthedrive,theirstepsmuffledbythelonggrassandclover
which had pushed up through the gravel. When the front of the house was
beforethem,disengagedfromthefluctuatingveilofwillows,Vancesawthatit
wassmallerthanhehadexpected;buttheairoffantasyandmysteryremained.
Everythingaboutthefrontwasirregular,butwithanirregularityunfamiliarto
him. The shuttered windows were very tall and narrow, and narrow too the
balconies, which projected at odd angles, supported by ornate wooden
brackets.Onecornerofthehouseroseintoatowerwithahighshingledroof,
andarchedwindowswhichseemedtosimulatetheopeningsinabelfry.Asort
of sloping roof over the front door also rested on elaborately ornamented
brackets,andoneachsideofthestepswasalargeurnofflutedironpaintedto
imitatestone,inwhichsomehalf-deadgeraniumslanguished.
While Upton unlocked the front door and went in with his sister, Vance
wandered around to the other side of the building. Here a still stranger
spectacle awaited him. An arcaded verandah ran across this front, and all
aboutit, and reaching outaboveit from bracket tobracket,from balcony to
balcony, a wistaria with huge distorted branches like rheumatic arms lifted
itselftotheeaves,festooning,asitmounted,everyprojectingpointwithlong
lilac fringes--as if, Vance thought, a flock of very old monkeys had been
orderedtoclimbupanddecoratethehousefrontincelebrationofsomeaugust
arrival.Hehadneverseensoprodigalaflowering,oraplantsocrippledand
ancient;andforawhileittookhisattentionfromthehouse.Butnotforlong.
Tobearsooldaclimberonitsfront,thehousemustbestillolder;anditsage,
itsmystery,itsreserve,laidaweightonhisheart.He
remembered once, at Euphoria, waking in the night--a thing which seldom
happenedtohim--andhearingthebelloftheRomanCatholicchurchslowly
andsolemnlytollthehour.Hesawthechurcheverydayonhiswaytoschool:
anarrow-frontedredbrickbuildingwithsandstonetrim,andasandstonecross
overthegable;andthoughhehadheardthebelltimeandtimeagainitsnote
hadneverstruckhim.Butsoundingthusthroughthehushofthenight,alone
awake in the sleeping town, it spoke to his wakefulness with a shock of
mystery.
The same feeling came over him as he stood in the long grass before the
abandonedhouse.Hefeltintheageandtheemptinessofitsomethingofthe
churchbell'shauntingsonority--asifitkeptinitsmutewallsavoiceassecret
and compelling. If only he had known how to pull the rope and start the
clapperswinging!
Ashestoodtheretheshutterswerethrownbackfromoneofthewindowson
thegroundfloor,andUptonleanedouttohailhim."Hullo!LauraLouthought
theghostshadgotyou."
"They had--almost," Vance laughed. He went up to the window and swung
himself into the room. Upton had opened all the shutters, and the afternoon
lightflowedsoftlyin.Theroomwasnotlarge,butitsceilingwashigh,witha
dimcobwebbycornice.Onthefloorwasacarpetwithadesignoflargeflower
wreathsandbows andloops offaded green.The mantelpiece,richlycarved,
wassurmountedbyamirrorreachingtotheceiling;andhereandtherestood
piecesof furniture of apolishedblack wood inlaid withpatternsof ivory or
metal. There were tall vases on mantel and table, their flanks painted with
landscapesinmedallion, orgarlandedwithheavywreatheslikethose onthe
carpet.OnthemantelpieceVancenoticedaround-facedclockguardedbyan
oldmaninbronzewithascytheandanhourglass;andstifflyrangedaboutthe
room were armchairs and small seats covered with a pale material slit and
tatteredwithage.As Vancestoodlooking atit allLauraLou appearedfrom
anotherroom.Alongaproncoveredherfromchintoknees,andshehadtieda
towelaboutherhead,andcarriedalargefeatherduster.
"Thisiswhereshealwayssat,"shewhisperedtoVance,signallingtohimto
follow. The room she led him into was more sombre than the other, partly
becausethewistariahadstretchedalongdraperyacrossoneofthewindows,
partlybecausethewallsweredarkandhadtallheavybookcasesagainstthem.
Inabowwindowstoodatablewithavelvettablecovertrailingitsfadedfolds
andmoth-eatenfringesonthefloor.Itboreamonumentalinkstand,abronze
lampwithaglobeofengravedglass,aworkbasket,andtwoorthreebooks.
ButwhatstartledVance,andmade
him,inhissurprise,forgeteverythingelse,wasthefactthatoneofthebooks
layopen,andthatacrossthepagewasasmallpairofoddlyshapedspectacles
inathingoldmounting.Itlookedasifsomeonehadbeenreadingthereafew
minutes before, and, disturbed by the sound of steps, had dropped the book
andspectaclesandglidedoutofsight.VancerememberedLauraLou'sfearof
ghosts, and glanced about him half apprehensively, as if the reader of that
book, the wearer of those spectacles, might be peering at them from some
shadowycorneroftheroom.
As he looked his eye fell on a picture hanging above the mantelpiece--a
crayondrawing,hethoughtitmustbe,inabossyandponderousgiltframe.It
was the portrait of a middle-aged woman, seen in three-quarter length. She
leaned on a table with a heavy velvet cover, bearing an inkstand and some
books--the very table and the very inkstand, Vance perceived, on which the
picture itself looked down. And the lady, past a doubt, was Miss Lorburn:
MissLorburninherthoughtfulmiddleage.Shehaddarkhair,partedinheavy
foldsaboveawidemeditativeforeheadtouchedwithhighlightsinchalk.Her
face was long and melancholy. The lappets of her lace cap fell on her
shoulders,andherthinarmsemergedfromthewidesleevesofadarkjacket,
withundersleevesofwhitelawnalsopickedoutinchalk.
Thepeculiardress,thesadface,resemblednothingVancehadeverseen;but
instantlyhefelttheirintimaterelationtoallthatwaspeculiarandunfamiliarin
thehouse.Thepast--theyallbelongedtothepast,thiswomanandherhouse,
tothesamepast,apastoftheirown,apastsoremotefromanythinginVance
Weston'sexperiencethatittookitsplaceinthepagesofhistoryanywherein
thedarkUnknown beforeEuphoriawas.Hecontinuedtogaze upatthesad
woman,wholookeddownonhimwithlargefull-orbedeyes,asifitwereshe
whohadjustdroppedherbookandspectacles,andreascendedtoherframeas
hecamein.
Without surprise he heard Laura Lou say behind him: "This is the book she
wasreadingwhenshedied.Mr.Lorburn--that'shernephew--won'tletustouch
anythinginthisroom,noteventodustit.Wehavetodustthethingswithout
movingthem."
HehadneverheardLauraLoumakesuchalongspeech;buthehadnoears
for it. He nodded, and she tiptoed away with her duster. Far off, down the
inlaidwoodenfloors,heheardUptonclumpingaboutinhisheavygardening
shoes, opening other doors and shutters. Laura Lou called to him, and their
voicesrecededtogethertosomedistantpartofthehouse.
Vancestood alonein MissLorburn'slibrary.He hadneverbeen inaprivate
library before; he hardly knew that collections of books existed as personal
possessions, outside of colleges and other public institutions. And all these
books had been a woman's, had been this Miss Lorburn's, and she had sat
amongthem,livedamongthem,diedreadingthem--readingtheveryoneon
thetableathiselbow!Itallseemedpartoftheincomprehensiblepasttowhich
sheandthehousebelonged,apastsoremote,sofullofelusivemystery,that
Vance'sfirstthoughtwas:"Whywasn'tIevertoldaboutthePastbefore?"
Heturnedfromtheportraitandlookedabouttheroom,tryingvainlytopicture
whatthiswoman's life had been, in her solemn high-ceilinged house, alone
amongherbooks.Hethoughtofheronwinterevenings,sittingatthistable,
besidetheoillampwiththeengravedglobe,herqueerlittlespectaclesonthat
longgravenose,poring,poringoverthepages,whilethewindwaileddown
the chimney and the snow piled itself up on the lawns. And on summer
eveningsshesatheretoo,probably--hecouldnotpictureheroutofdoors;sat
hereinaslantinglight,likethatnowfallingthroughthewistariafringes,and
leanedhersadheadonherhand,andreadandread....
His eyes wandered from the close rows of books on the shelves to the one
lying open on the table. That was the book she had been reading when she
died--died as a very old woman, and yet so incalculably long ago. Vance
movedtothetable,andbentovertheopenpage.Itwasyellow,andblotched
withdampness:thetypewasqueertoo,differentfromanythatwasfamiliarto
him.Heread:
"InXanadudidKublaKhan--"
Oh,whatbeautiful,whatincrediblewords!Whatdidtheymean?Butwhatdid
it matter what they meant? Or whether they meant anything but their own
unutterablemusic?Vancedroppeddownintothehigh-backedarmchairbythe
table,pushedthespectaclesawayfromthepage,andreadon.
"InXanadudidKublaKhan
Astatelypleasure-domedecree:
WhereAlph,thesacredriver,ran
Throughcavernsmeasurelesstoman,
Downtoasunlesssea..."
Itwasanewmusic,amusicutterlyunknowntohim,buttowhichthehidden
chordsofhissoulatoncevibrated.Itwassomethingforhim--somethingthat
intimately belonged to him. What had he ever known of poetry before? His
mind'seyeranovertheversehehadbeennurturedon:JamesWhitcombRiley,
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Bliss Carman's "Songs from Vagabondia"; hackneyed
old "pieces" from Whittier and Longfellow, in the Sixth Reader; Lowell's
"Ode"--there were fine bits in that--Whitman's "Pioneers" (good, too, but
ratherjiggy);andthenthenewstuffhehadgotglimpsesofhereandtherein
themagazines,inoneortwoofthe"highbrow"reviews(butthesehardlyever
camehisway),andinhiscollegepaper.Andhehadtakenitforgrantedthat
hehadcoveredthefieldofpoetry....
Andnow--this!Butthiswaspoetry,thiswaswhathissoulhadbeenalightfor,
this was what the word Poetry meant, the word which always made wings
rustleinhimwhenhereadit.Hesatwithhisheadbetweenhishands,reading
on, passionately, absorbedly, his whole being swept away on that mighty
current.Herememberedthat,ashelookedup atthehousefromwithout,he
hadcomparedittoalong-silentbell,andhadlongedtosetitssonorouswaves
inmotion.Andbehold,thebellwasswingingandclangingallabouthimnow,
envelopinghimingreatundulationofsoundliketheundulationsofasummer
sea.
Butforthatinnermusicthehousewasutterlysilent.Thestepsandvoicesof
hiscousinshaddiedaway.Theveryafternoonlightseemedtoliearrestedon
thepage.Heseemedtohavebeensittingtherealongtime,inthisunmoving
ecstasy,whensomethingstirrednearhim,andraisinghisheadhesawagirl
standinginthedoorandlookingathim.
"Oh,whowrotethis?"heexclaimedbreathlessly,pointingtothebook.
Itwasonlyafterhehadaskedthequestion,afterhisvoicehadsoundedaloud
in his own ears, that he became conscious of her presence as of something
alien,substantial,outside of his own mind, a part of the forgotten world of
reality.Thenhesawthatshewasyoung,tall,andpale,withdarkhairbanded
closeunderherdroopinghat.Therewassomethingabouther,hesawalso,that
fitted into the scene, seemed to mark her as a part of it, though he was
instantlyawareofherbeingsoyoung,notmuch
older than himself, he imagined. But what were time and space at that
moment?
Without surprise, but merely smiling a little, she came up and bent over the
book,narrowingherlidsslightlyinthewayoftheshort-sighted."That?Why--
butColeridge,ofcourse!"Shechantedsoftlyafterhim:
"'Throughcavernsmeasurelesstoman,Downtoasunlesssea.'"
Vancesatlookingupather.Hehadheardthe"ofcourse,"butwithoutheeding
it.Allhecaredforwasthatshehadgivenhimtheman'sname--themanwho
had imagined that. His brain was reeling as if he were drunk. He had not
thought of moving from his chair, of naming himself to the newcomer, or
askinghername.
"Didhewritealotmore?"heasked.
Shestoodbythetable,herhandslightlyrestingonit,andlookeddownonhim
withafaintsmile."Yes,hedid,worseluck."
"Worseluck--?"
"Becausesoverylittlewasofthatquality."Withouttakingthebookfromhim,
orlookingatthepage,shewenton:
"'ButO,thatdeepromanticchasmwhichslanted
Downthegreenhillathwartacedarncover...'"
Vancelistenedenthralled. Her rich voice, modelling thewords,gavethema
newrelief.Hewashalfawarethatherwayofspeakingwasunlikeanyhehad
everheard,buttoomuchunderthespellofwhatshewassayingtoseparateit
fromthequalityofherutterance.Hecommandedimperiously:"Goon--"and
she continued, leaning slightly toward him and dropping the petal-like
syllableswithsoftdeliberation:
"'Adamselwithadulcimer
InavisiononceIsaw...'"
Vance leaned back and listened with deep-drawn breath and lowered lids.
"Honey-dew...honey-dew..."hemurmuredassheended,halfconsciously
applyingtheepithettohervoice.
Shedroppeddownintoachairbesidehimandlookedathimthoughtfully."It's
queer--yourcaringasmuchasthataboutpoetry,andneverhavingcomeacross
this."
Heflushedup,andforthefirsttimelookedatherwithfullawarenessofher
presenceasastranger,andanintruderonhisdream.Thelookconfirmedhim
intheimpressionthatshewasveryyoung,thoughprobablytwoorthreeyears
olderthanhimself.Butitmightbeonlyhertallnessandself-assurancewhich
madehimthinkherolder.Shehaddarkgrayeyes,deeplylashed,andfeatures
somewhattoolongandthininrepose,butroundedandilluminedbyasmile
which flashed across her face in sudden sympathy or amusement. Vance
detected amusement now, and answered curtly: "I daresay if you knew me
you'dthinktherewasawholelotofthingsI'dnevercomeacross."
"I daresay," she agreed complaisantly. "But I might also remember that you
wereprobablytooyoungeventohaveheardof'TheAncientMariner.'"
"Coleridge?The'AncientMariner'one?Wasitthesamewhowrotethis?"She
nodded."Youknow'TheAncientMariner,'then?SixthReader,I
suppose--orcollegecourse?"Shelaughedalittle."Soculturecomes."
Heinterruptedangrily:"WhathaveIsaidtomakeyoulaugh?"
"Nothing. I wasn't laughing at you, but at the intelligence of our national
educators--no, educationists, I think they call themselves nowadays--who
managetotakethebloomoffourgreatesttreasuresbygivingthemtoyoung
savagestomaul.Isee,forinstance,thatthey'vespoilt'TheAncientMariner'
foryou."Shecontinuedtoscrutinizehimthoughtfully."You'renotoneofthe
youngsavages--butthebloomhasbeenrubbedoffagoodmanythingsforyou
inthatway,hasn'tit?"
"Well,yes--some."
"Notthatitmatters--foryou.You'll get it back. But I do so hate to think of
mutilatedbeauty."
Mutilatedbeauty!Howrichthewordssoundedonherlips--asifshesweptthe
rubbish of the centuries from some broken statue, noble in its ruin! Vance
continued to look at her, absently yet intently. He had drawn her into his
dream.
Butshestoodupandpushedherchairaside."Andnow,"shesaidgaily,ina
newvoice,alightandhumorousone,"perhapsyou'lltellmewhoyouareand
howyougothere."
The question seemed to come to him from so far off that he stared at her
perplexedlybeforeanswering."I--oh,I'mjusttheTracys'cousin.I'mstaying
attheirhouse.They'resomewhererounddustingtheotherrooms."
Herlookbecamemorefriendly."Oh,you'rethecousinfromtheWest,who's
been ill and has come to Paul's Landing for a change? Mrs. Tracy told me
aboutyou--onlyIcan'trememberyourname."
"VanceWeston."
"Mine's Héloïse Spear. They call me Halo. The name and the nickname are
bothridiculous."Sheheldoutherhand."Andyou'vecometocallonpoorold
CousinElinor?It'sanattentionshedoesn'toftenreceivefromherownfamily."
Sheglancedabouttheroom."Ihaven'tbeenhereinanage--Idon'tknowwhat
mademecometoday.AtleastIdidn't--"shebrokeoffwithoneofherfugitive
smiles,lettinghereyesrestonhisandthenturningawayfromhimtoinspect
thebooks."Someday,"shesaid,asiftoherself,"Imusthavethecourageto
takethesedownandgivethemagoodcleaning."
Vancestoodupalso,beginningtospeakeagerly."CouldIcomeandhelpyou
whenyoudo--Imeanwiththebooks?I'd--I'dlikeitfirst-rate."
She turned back to him, her eyes brimming with banter and coquetry. "On
accountofthebooks?"
Buthewastoodeepinhisownemotiontoheedthechallenge.Heanswered
simply:"Idon'toftengetachanceatthiskind."Hiseyesfollowedhersabout
thecrowdedshelves."I'veneverbeforebeeninahousewithalibrary--areal
librarylikethis."
Shegavealittleshrug."Oh,it'safunnylibrary,antiquated,likethehouse.But
Cousin Elinor does seem to have cared for good poetry. When other ladies
werereading'Friendship'sGarland'shechoseColeridge."
Hisgazereturnedperplexedtoherface."Whydoyoucallitafunnylibrary?"
"Well,it'snotexactlyup-to-date.Isupposeit'safairlygoodspecimenofwhat
usedtobecalleda 'gentleman'slibrary'inmygreat-grandfather'stime.With
additions,naturally,fromeachgeneration.CousinElinormusthaveboughta
good many books herself." She looked about her critically. "After all," she
concludedwithasmile,"theWillowsisgettingtohaveanatmosphere."
Vance listened, still perplexed. Her allusions escaped him--her smile was
unintelligible--but he gathered that she attached no very great importance to
thehouse,ortothebooks,andhedimlyresentedthisairoftakingforgranted
whattohimwastherevelationofanunknownworld.
Involuntarilyheloweredhisvoice."It'sthefirsttimeI'veeverbeeninavery
oldhouse,"hesaid,asifannouncingsomethingofimportance.
"Averyoldhouse?TheWillows?"Theideaseemedanewonetoher."Well--
afterall,everythingisrelative,aswhat's-his-namesaid."
"Don'tyoucallitaveryoldhouse?"
Shewrinkledherdarkeyebrowsinaneffortofmemory."Letmesee.Father's
great-uncle Ambrose Lorburn built it, I believe. When would that be?" She
begantocountonherfingers."Sayabout1830.Well,thatdoesmakeitvery
nearlyanoldhouseforAmerica,doesn'tit?Almostahundredyears!"
"Andthesamefolksalwayslivedinit?"
"Oh,ofcourse."Sheseemedsurprisedatthequestion."Thepresentowneris
thefirstabsentee--poorCousinTom!Hethinksheoughttolivehere,buthe
sayshecan'tcomeuptoscratch.Sohemakesupforitbykeepingeverything
unchanged."Againshesurveyedtheplaintiveshadowyroom."Isuppose,"she
mused,"thehousewillbegettingtohaveanarchaeologicalinterestofitsown
beforelong.ItmustbeoneofthebestspecimensofHudsonRiverBracketed
thatareleft,eveninourultra-conservativeneighbourhood."
ToVancesheseemedstilltobespeakinganotherlanguage,ofwhichhecaught
onlyanoccasionalphrase,andeventhatbuthalfcomprehensible.
"HudsonRiverBracketed?"heechoed."What'sthat?"
"Why,didn'tyouknowitwasourindigenousstyleofarchitectureinthispart
oftheworld?"Hersmileofmockeryhadreturned,buthedidnotmindforhe
sawitwasnotdirectedagainsthimself."Iperceive,"shecontinued,"thatyou
are not familiar with the epoch-making work of A. J. Downing Esq. on
LandscapeGardeninginAmerica."Sheturnedtothebookcases,ranherhand
alongashelf,andtookdownavolumeboundinblackclothwiththetitlein
gilt Gothic lettering. Her fingers flew from page to page, her short-sighted
eyesfollowingasswiftly."Here--here'stheplace.It'stoolongtoreadaloud;
butthepointisthatMr.Downing,whowasthegreatauthorityoftheperiod,
sums up the principal architectural styles as the Grecian, the Chinese, the
Gothic,theTuscanorItalianvilla,and--HudsonRiverBracketed.UnlessI'm
mistaken,hecitestheWillowsasoneofthemostperfectexamplesofHudson
River Bracketed (this was in 1842), and-- yes, here's the place: 'The seat of
Ambrose Lorburn Esq., the Willows, near Paul's Landing, Dutchess County,
N.Y., is one of the most successful instances of etc., etc. . . . architectural
elementsingeniouslycombinedfromtheChineseandtheTuscan.'Andsothey
were!Whataneyethemanhad.Andhere'sthepicture,willowsandall!How
lovelytheseoldsteelengravingswere...andlookatmygreat-uncleandaunt
onthelawn,pointingouttoeachotherwithprideandadmirationtheirfairly
obvious copper beech . . . 'one of the first ever planted in a gentleman's
groundsintheUnitedStates.'"
They bent their heads together over the engraving, which, as she said,
reproduced the house exactly as Vance had just beheld it, except that the
willows were then slender young trees, and the lawns mown, that striped
awningsshadedthe lowerwindows,andthata gentlemaninatallhatanda
stockwascallingtheattentionofaladyinbonnetandcashmereshawltothe
celebratedcopperbeech.FromMissSpear'stoneVancecouldnottellwhether
pride or mockery was uppermost in her comments on her ancestor's
achievement. But he dimly guessed that, though she might laugh at the
Willows,andatwhatMr.Downingsaidofit,shewasnotsorrythatthehouse
figuredsohonourablyinhisbook.
thebook-linedroomwhenhewasrousedbyUpton'shobbledehoytreadanda
tap on the shoulder. "What's become of you? I guess you've been sound
asleep,"hiscousinchallengedhim.
the volume, glanced at her wristwatch, and turned to nod to him from the
threshold."Gracious,how
late it is! I must hunt up the Tracy children, and see how much crockery
they'vesmashed."
She disappeared in the spectral shadows of the drawing room, and Vance
heard her heels rapping lightly across the hall, and through unknown rooms
and passages beyond. He sat motionless where she had left him, his elbows
proppedonthetable,thebookstillopenbeforehim,hisheadpressedbetween
hishands,lettingthestrangenessoftheplaceandthehourenvelophimlike
thefallinglight.
It was dusk in the book-lined room when he was roused by Upton's
hobbledehoytreadandatapontheshoulder."What'sbecomeofyou?Iguess
you'vebeensoundasleep,"hiscousinchallengedhim.
Vancesatuprightwithastart."No,Ihaven'tbeenasleep."Hegottohisfeet
andlookedabouthim."Where'sMissSpear?"
"Miss Halo? Oh, did you see her? She's gone long ago. A gentleman friend
called for her in his car. I don't know where they went. She never stays
anywheremorethanfiveminutes."Vancewassilent,andUptonadded:"Say,
comealong;LauraLou'swaiting.Timetolockup."
Vancereluctantlyfollowedhiscousin.Astheyleftthehouseherealizedthat,
insteadofseizingtheopportunitytoexploreeverynookofit,hehadsatallthe
afternooninoneroom,andmerelydreamedofwhathemighthaveseeninthe
others. But that was always his way: the least little fragment of fact was
enough for him to transform into a palace of dreams, whereas if he tried to
graspmoreofitatatimeitremainedonhishandsassomuchunusablereality.
VII
Threemenandtwoladiesweresittingontheshabbypaintlessverandahat
Eaglewoodattheendofasummerafternoon.
Theplacewasfullofthesignsofcomfortablebutdisorderlyuse.Alowtable
wasspreadwithteathings,ateapotofonemake,cupsofanother,plateswith
fragmentsofstale-lookingcakeandcoldtoast.Therewere
willow armchairs, some disabled and mended with string, but all provided
withgailystripedcushionswhichhadvisiblysufferedfromsunandrain;there
werealsolongdeckchairswithtatteredplaidsorIndianblanketsonthem,and
more cushions strewn on the floor, among a litter of magazines and
newspapers.Inonecornerstoodatallearthenjarwithbranchesofblossoming
plumandshadbush,inanotheraneaselwithastudyblockedoutincharcoal,
and everywhere were trails of ashes, and little accumulations of cigar and
cigaretteends.
Thelow-studdedoldhouseofgraystonewasthronedonthemountainsideso
high above Paul's Landing that those who sat on the verandah missed the
dispiriting sight of the town and of the cement works below, and saw only,
beyond the precipitate plunge of many-tinted forest, the great sweep of the
Hudson,andthecliffsonitsothershore.
TheviewfromEaglewoodwasfamous--yetvisible,HéloïseSpearreflected,to
none of those who habitually lived with it except herself. Her mother, she
thought,hadprobablyseenitforawhile,yearsago,inherfirsteageryouth;
then it had been lost in a mist of multiple preoccupations, literary,
humanitarian,anddomestic, fromwhichitemergedonlywhenvisitorswere
led out on the verandah for the first time. "Ah, our view--yes," Mrs. Spear
wouldthenmurmur,closingherhandsomeeyesasiftoshutherselfinwiththe
unutterable, away from the importunities of spoken praise. And her guests
would remain silent, too much impressed by her attitude to find the
superlativesexpectedofthem.
AsforMr.Spear,hisdaughterknewthathehadsimplyneverseentheviewat
all;hiseyeshadneverbeenstilllongenough.Buthehadreadofitinverse
andprose;hetalkedofitwithvivacityandemotion;heknewtheattitudeto
strike,deprecatingyetpossessive,lightingacigarettewhiletheothersgazed,
and saying: "The poets have sung us, as you know. You remember Bryant's
'Eyrie'?Yes--that'stheEaglewoodview.Heusedtostayherewithmywife's
great-grandfather.AndWashingtonIrving,inhisSketchBook.AndWhitman-
-it'sgenerallysupposed..."AndatthatpointMrs.Spearwouldopenhereyes
to interject: "Really? You didn't know that my husband knew Whitman? I
alwaysscoldhimfornothavingwrittendownsomeoftheirwonderfultalks
together--"
"Ah, Whitman was a very old man when I knew him--immobilized at
Camden.Henevercamehereinmytime.ButfromsomethingheoncesaidI
gatheredthatEaglewoodundoubtedly...yes,Imustreallyjotitalldownone
ofthesedays...."
Mr.Spear'spastwasfullofthedatelessbluroftheremarkablethingshehad
not jotted down. Slim, dark, well-preserved, with his wavy grayish hair and
cleverlydyedmoustache,hewasthetypeofthebusydreamerwhoisforever
glancing at his watch, calling impatiently for timetables and calendars (two
articlesnevertobefoundintheSpearhousehold),calculatingandplottingout
his engagements, doubting whether there will be time to squeeze in this or
that,wonderingifafterallitwillbepossibleto"makeit,"andthen,attheend
ofeachday,groaningashelightshisafter-dinnercigar:"Deviltakeit,whenI
gotupthismorningIthoughtofalotofratherimportantthingsIhadtodo--
and like a fool I forgot to jot them down." It was not to be expected, Halo
thought,thatamanasbusy asher fathershouldeverhavetimetolook ata
sunset.
As for Héloïse's brother Lorry (Lorburn, of course) who sat extended in the
hollowofacanvaschair,hishandsomecontemptuousheadtiltedback,andhis
feetontheverandahrail,Lorry,thefool,couldseetheviewwhenhechose,
andoutofsheerperversityandposing,wouldn't--andthatwasworstofall,to
hissister'sthinking."Oh,forGod'ssake,Halo,don'tserveuptheviewagain,
there'sagoodgirl!Shan'tIeverbeabletoteachyounottohavetaste?The
world'ssimplydyingofasurfeitofscenery--an orgyofbeauty.Ifmyfather
wouldcutdownsomeofthosecompletelysuperfluoustrees,andletusgeta
line on the chimney of the cement factory . . . It's a poor little chimney, of
course,butit'sgotthesupremequalityofugliness.Incertainlights,youknow,
it'salmostasuglyastheWillows...ortheParthenon,say...."
ButunlesstherewerevisitorspresentLorryseldomgotasfarastheParthenon
inhismonologue,becauseheknewhisfamilyhadlongsincediscountedhis
opinions about beauty, and went on thinking of other things while he was
airingthem--evenold GeorgeFrensidedidnowadays, thoughonce theboy's
paradoxeshadseemedtoamusehim.
GeorgeFrensidewastheothermanontheverandah.Therehesat,behindhis
sempiternal cigar, glowering into the tender spaces of the sky as if what he
sawtherewereanoffensetothehumanrace;yetHalowonderedifonecould
say of those small deep-sunk eyes, forever watchful behind their old-
fashionedpince-nez,thatanythingtheyrestedonescapedthem.Probablynot;
forincertainwayshewassensitivetobeauty,andnotafraidofit,likeLorry.
Only,tomovehim,ithadtobebeautyofman'smaking,somethingwrungby
human genius out of the stubborn elements. The sunset and the woodlands
werenothingtohimiftheyhadnotfedapoetorapainter--apoetpreferably.
Frenside had often said to Halo: "No, my child; remember I'm not a
vegetarian--nevercoulddigestrawlandscape."Butthatdidnot
meanthathedidnotseeit,didnotparcelitoutintoitscomponentpartswith
thosecoolclassifyingeyes.GeorgeFrensidewasawareofmostthings;little
escapedhimofthecosmicspectacle.Onlyforhimthebeautyoftheearthwas
something you could take apart, catalogue, and pigeonhole, and not the
envelopingharmonyitwastothegirlwhosatbesidehimlookingoutonthe
sunsetopalescenceattheirfeet.
George Frenside was an institution at Eaglewood, and wherever else the
Spearssetuptheirtents.Hisshortstockyfigure,hisbroodingSocratichead,
hiscigarandeyeglasses,figuredamongHalo'searliestrecollections,andshe
hadalwaysseenhimasshesawhimnow:elderly,poor,unsuccessful,andyet
more masterful, more stimulating, than anyone else she had known. "A fire
that warms everything but itself," she had once defined him; but he had
snappedback:"Idon'twarm,Isinge."
Notabaddescriptionofhisrelationtomostpeople;butshe,whoknewhimso
well, knew also the communicative glow he could give out, and often
wonderedwhyithadneverlituphisownpath.
ShewasfamiliarwithFrenside'sexplanation:thecriticalfaculty outweighed
allothersinhim,and,ashehadoftentoldher,criticismwon'tkeepitsman.
He saw (he also said) the skeletons of things and people: he was a walking
radiograph. God knows he didn't want to be--would rather not have had a
decomposing mind. But it was the one allotted to him, and with it he had
lingeredontheoutskirtsofsuccess,contributingfiercedissectionsofpolitical
andliteraryideastovariousnewspapersandreviews,oftenrefusingtowrite
anarticlewhenitwasaskedfor--andespeciallywhenagoodsumwasoffered
forit--andthensuddenlydashingoffabrilliantdiatribewhichnoonewanted,
andwhichcamebacktohimfromoneeditorafteranother.Hehadwritten,a
good many years earlier, a brief volume of essays called Dry Points, which
hadhadaconsiderablesuccessinthelimitedcircleofthecultivated,andbeen
enthusiastically reviewed in England. This had produced a handsome offer
fromapublisher,whoaskedFrensideforarevolutionarybookoneducation:a
subjectmadetohishand.Theideadelightedhim,hewantedthemoneybadly,
hehadneverbeforehadtheofferofsolargeasum;andhesatparalyzedby
thecompletenessoftheopportunity.Onedayhefoundatitlewhichamused
him--TheArtofImpartingIgnorance--andthatwastheonlylineofthebook
heeverwrote.
"It'soneofthesurestsignsofgeniustodoyourbestwhenyou'reworkingfor
money," he told Halo. "I have only talent--and the idea of doing a book to
order simply benumbed me. What the devil can I do but keep on hack-
writing?"Buteventhathedidonlyintermittently.Nevertheless,heheld
jealouslytohispecuniaryindependence,and,though he frequently accepted
the hospitality of the Spears, and of a few other old friends, he was never
knowntohave borrowedapennyofanyofthem, afactwhichHaloSpear's
ownbriefexperienceledhertoregardasunusual,andalmostunaccountable.
But then, she thought, there was nothing about George Frenside that wasn't
queer,eventohisvirtues....
Her eyes wandered back to the landscape. It lay before her in the perfect
beautyofaJuneevening:oneofthoseeveningswhentwilightfloatsaloftin
an air too pure to be penetrated by the density of darkness. What did it all
mean, she wondered--that there should be this beauty, so ever-varying, so
soul-sufficing,socomplete,andfacetofacewithitthesepeoplewhooneand
allwouldgladlyhaveexchangeditforanyoneofahundredotherthings;her
motherformoneyenoughtocarrythemtotheendoftheyear,herfatherfor
hisNewYorkclubandabridgetable,Lorryofcourseformoneytoo(money
wasalwaystheburningquestionintheSpearfamily),andGeorgeFrensidefor
goodtalkinaBohemianrestaurant?
The girl herself shared, or at least understood, the hereditary antagonism
toward Eaglewood of those who lived there. To the last two generations of
LorburnsEaglewoodhadembodiedallthethingstheycouldnotdobecauseof
it. The only member of the family who idealised it (and even he only
theoretically) was Mr. Spear, who had "married into" it, and still faintly
glowed with the refracted honour of speaking of "our little old place on the
Hudson."
Old it was, for an American possession. Lorburns had lived there for
considerablyovertwohundredyears:thepresenthousehadbeenbuiltin
1680.Itwastoolong,perhaps,forAmericanstoliveinanyoneplace;andthe
worstofitwasthat,whentheyhad,itbecameasortoftribalobligation
togoondoingso.SellEaglewood?Whichoneofthemwouldhavedaredto?
When Pittsburgh and Chicago fell upon the feudal Hudson, and one old
property after another was bartered for a mess of pottage, the Lorburns sat
apart with lifted brows, and grimly thanked Providence that Paul's Landing
wastoofarfromNewYorktoattractthemillionaires.Evennow,hadfashion
climbedtotheirsolitaryheightitisdoubtfulifanyofthem--not
excepting Lorry--would have dared to mention aloud the places they could
havegoneto,andthethingstheycouldhavedone,ifonlytheyhadbeenfree
of Eaglewood. As it happened, no such danger threatened, for fashion had
passedthemby;buthadtheperilbeenimminent,Mr.Spearwould
haveopposeditwithalltheforceofhiseloquence.
Mr. Spear regarded Eaglewood with the veneration of the parvenu for a
recentlyacquiredancestor.WhenhemarriedthebeautifulMissLorburn,
New York said: "He's very clever, of course; but still, who would have
expectedtoseeaSpearatEaglewood?"Andheknewit,andwasdetermined
to show New York that a Spear could be perfectly at home even at that
altitude.
He was himself the son of the Reverend Harold Spear, the eloquent and
popular divine who for years had packed Saint Ambrose's with New York's
mostdistinguishedcongregation.Dr.Spear,aspopularoutofthepulpitasin
it,hadmarriedadistantcousinoftheVanderLuydens,thuspavingtheway
forhisson'smorebrilliantalliance;butstillitrequiredacertaincourageonthe
partoftheheiressofEaglewoodtoacceptasuitorwhomherfriendsalludedto
as "merely clever." Sometimes Héloïse, thinking over the phrase (which her
motherhadoncequotedtoherinderision),smiledtonotehowexactitwas.
Afterall,thosedulloldLorburnsandtheirclanmusthavehadanicesenseof
nuances:herfather,whomshelovedandlaughedat,wasexactlythat--hewas
merelyclever.Itwasperhapsbecausehiswifebelongedtothesamecategory
(though, being a Lorburn, she had never been placed in it, since a Lorburn
womanmightbebeautiful,ormasterful,ordistinguished,butneveranything
soambiguousas"clever")thatshehadhadbeenattractedbyyoungSpear,and
hadmarriedhiminspiteofthefamilyopposition.EmilyLorburn,broughtup
in an atmosphere of rigid social conformity, had become passionately
nonconforming; her husband, educated after the strict rule of Episcopalian
orthodoxy,hadreadStraussandRenaninsecretbeforegoingoveropenlyto
Darwin and Haeckel. The young people, dazzled by each other's audacities,
had perhaps expected, by pooling them, to form a nucleus of intellectual
revolt; but the world had revolted without waiting for them. Their heresies
weretoo mild to causeanyexcitement outside oftheirowncircle, and their
house, instead of being the centre of incendiarism they had imagined, was
merelyregardedasonewhereonewaslikelytomeetagreeablepeople.
All this, though long since patent to their children, was still but dimly
apprehendedbyMr.andMrs.Spear,andHaloknewthathermothersecretly
regarded Eaglewood, the obligations it entailed and the privations it
necessitated,asthechiefobstacletotherealizingofherambitions.Mrs.Spear
feltthatwhatbothsheandherhusbandneededtoproducetherevolutionary
effecttheyaimedatwasahouseinNewYork;andforyearsallherenergies
hadbeenbentongettingit.ThesehadbeentheyearsofHalo'slittlegirlhood
andfirstyouth:economicalyearsmarkedbyaseriesofsnowboundwintersat
Eaglewood, and (whenever the place could be let) European summers in
placesdingilyaesthetic.Butinspiteof these sacrifices the unequal struggle
hadhadtobegivenup;thevisionaryhouseinNewYorkhadshrunktoasmall
flat,theflattosixweeksinafamily
hotel,withEaglewoodfortherestoftheyear;andatpresent,asHaloknew,
her mother was anxiously calculating whether, with the growing cost of
everything,andLorry'sperpetualdebts,andperpetualinabilitytofindajob,it
wouldnotbenecessarytorenounceevenamonthinthefamilyhotel.
ThereweretimeswhentothegirlherselfEaglewoodwasasmuchofaprison
astoherelders.Butthefactthatitwaseasierforherthanforherparentsto
getawaymadethebeingtherelessirksome;andbesides,shelovedtheplace
for itself, instead of being proud of it for family reasons, and hating it for
everyother.Thehousedepressedher,inspiteofitsportraitsandrelics,andthe
faded perfume of old days, because it was associated with the perpetual
struggle to keep the roof dry, the ceilings patched, the furnace going, the
curtainsandcarpetsturnedanddarned,thetaxespaid.Butpovertyandlackof
care could not spoil what lay outside the house: the acres of neglected
parklandwithancienttreeswideningtheiruntrimmeddomesoverlawnsthat
hadlapsedintopasture,thewoodsbeyond,murmuringandglintingwithlittle
streams, and that ever-renewed view on which the girl's eyes never rested
withoutthesenseofinnercommunionwhichalltheothershadmissed.
Ah,thatview...suddenlyshethought:"IbelievetheboyIsawdownatthe
WillowslastweekhastheonlyeyesIknowthatwouldreallyseeitasIdo--";
andthethought,rousingheroutofherdream,broughthertoherfeetwitha
jerk.
"Oh," she exclaimed, with a cry in which amusement mingled with
consternation;forshesawnearlyeverythinginlifefirstontheamusingside,
eventoherownshortcomings.
George Frenside lifted his head from the newspaper and turned his ironic
eyeglassesonher."What'sup?"
"OnlythatI'veforgottenanengagement.""What?Again?"
Shenoddedcontritely."I'maperfectbeast--itwassimplyvileofme!"Shewas
talking to herself, not to Frenside. As for her own family, they were all too
usedtoherfrequentoutburstsofcompunctionoverforgottenengagementsto
letherremorsedisturbtheirmeditations.
Foramomentshestoodbroodingoverherlatestlapse;thensheturnedtore-
enterthehouse.AsshedisappearedMrs.Spear,rousedfromsomeinner
calculationwhich hadwrinkledher browsandsharpened thelinesabout her
mouth,satup tocallafterherin adeepwailingvoice:"ButLewisTarrant--
have you all forgotten Lewis Tarrant? Who's going to fetch him from the
station?"
WheneverMrs.Spearemergedthussuddenlyfromtheseaofherperplexities,
herstilllovelyfaceworeahalf-drownedlookwhichmadeHalofeelasifone
oughttogiveherbreathingexercisesandotherfirst-aidremedies.
"Don'tlooksoupset,darling.WhyshouldyouthinkI'dforgottenLewis?I'm
goingdownpresentlytomeethim;histrain'snotdueforanotherhour."
ButLorrySpear,withaneffort,hadpulledhimselftohisfeetandcastaway
hiscigaretteend."Youneedn't,Halo.I'llgo,"hesaidinavoiceofbrotherly
self-sacrifice.
"Thankseverso,Lorry.Butdon'tbother--"
"Nobother,child.I'llcallatthepostatthesametime,andpickupMother's
arrowrootatthegrocer's."
ThisevokedalanguidlaughfromMr.SpearandFrenside,forthegroceryat
Paul's Landing was the repository for all Mrs. Spear's daily purchases, and
whenevershesuggestedthat,yes,well,perhapstheyhadbettercallthereon
the way home, because she believed she had ordered a packet of arrowroot,
the motor would invariably climb the hill from the town groaning with
innumerableparcels.
Halopausedintheglassdoorleadingintothehall."Iwantthecarformyself,
Lorry,"shesaiddecisively,andturnedtogoin.Behindher,asshecrossedthe
hall,sheheardherbrother'sprecipitatesteps."Seehere,Halo--stop!I'mgoing
downtomeetLewis;Iwantto."
She faced him with her faint smile. "Oh, certainly. Come with me, then."
"What'stheuseofyourgoing?"Hishandsomeirresolutemouthgrewsulky
andresentful."FactisIratherwanttoseeLewisalone.We'vegotalittle
matter--"
His sister's eyebrows rose ironically. "So I supposed. How much this time,
Lorry?"
"Howmuch--?"
"Yes. Only don't exaggerate. I've told you I want the car for myself. How
muchwereyougoingtoaskLewistolendyou?"
Her brother, flushing up, began to protest and ejaculate. "Damned
impertinence--" But Halo lifted her arm to examine her wristwatch. "Don't
splutter like Father when he says he's going to denounce an outrage in the
papers. And don't be exorbitant either." She fumbled in the shabby antelope
bagwhichhungfromherotherwrist."Here--willthisdo?"Shetookouttwo
ten-dollarnotesandheldthemtowardherbrother.
"Hell,child--"hestammered,manifestlytemptedandyetfurious."Youknow
youwouldn'tgetasmuchoutofLewis.Bettertakeit."
He stood with his hands in his pockets, his chin down, staring at the notes
withoutmoving.
"Come,Lorry;ItellyouI'minahurry."Shemadeaslightmotionasthoughto
reopenthebagandputbackthemoney.
"I'll go down myself to fetch Lewis," he mumbled, all the fluid lines of his
facehardeningintoanangryobstinacy.
"Youwon't!"
"Won'tI?You'llsee,then--"Hecaughtherbythewrist,andtheystoodglaring
ateach other and breathing hard,liketwoangry young animals. Then Halo,
withalaugh,wrenchedherhandfree,andreopeningthebagdrewoutanother
tendollars.Shetossedthethreenotesonthetable,andwalkedacrossthehall
and out of the front door. No footsteps followed her, and she deemed it
superfluoustoglancebackandseeifthemoneyhadbeenremovedfromthe
table.
VIII
Inthecobwebbycoach-houseoftheoldstableshefoundtheman-of-all-work,
Jacob,whowaschauffeurwhenhewasnotgardeneranddairyman,lyingon
thefloorwithhisheadunderthecar.Heemergedathercall,and
saidheguessedtherewassomethingwrongagain,becauseMr.Lorryhadhad
troublegettingherupthehill,andmaybehe'dbettertakehertopieceswhile
hewasaboutit.
"Notonyourlife.I'mgoingdowntoPaul'sLandinginherthisminute."Jacob
stared,butwithoutprotesting."Youwon'tgetback,verylikely,"he
merelyobserved,andHaloscrambledintothemotorwithalaughandashrug.
Themotor, shesaidto herself, was likelifein generalatEaglewood:it was
always breaking down, but it always managed to keep on going. "Tied
togetherwithstringandpatchedupwithcourtplaster:that'sbeenthewaywith
everythinginthefamilyeversinceIcanremember."Shegavealittlesighas
she slipped down the overgrown drive, heading for the stone pillars of the
gateway.Themotor,sheknew,wouldbeallrightgoingdownthehilltoPaul's
Landing--andafterthat,atthemoment,shedidn'tparticularlycare.Ifsheand
Lewis Tarrant had to walk back to Eaglewood in the dark--well, Lewis
wouldn't mind, she imagined. But meanwhile she had to catch up somehow
withherforgottenengagement.
Inafewminutesthewindingroaddownthemountainbroughthertothesad
outskirtsofPaul'sLanding,andthencetotheTracys'house.Shejumpedout,
ranupthestepsandknocked,lookingabouthercuriouslyasshedidso.She
seldom went to the Tracys', and had forgotten how shabby and humble the
place was. The discovery increased her sense of compunction and self-
disapproval.Howcouldshehaveforgottenthatcleverboythereforsolong!If
hehadbeenoneofherowngroupitwouldneverhavehappened."Ifthere's
anything I hate," she reflected, "it's seeming casual to people who live like
this."And instantlyshe decidedthatone oughtto devoteone'swhole lifeto
the Tracys and their kind, and that to enjoy the world's goods, even in the
limitedandprecariouswayinwhichtheywereenjoyedatEaglewood,while
other lives like these were being lived at one's door, denoted a vulgarity of
soulwhichwasthelastfaultshewouldhavecaredtoconfessto.Whatmadeit
worse,too,intheparticularcase,wastheTracys'far-offcousinshipwiththe
Lorburn family; the fact that two or three generations ago a foolish (and
elderly)LorburnvirginhadrunawaywithfarmerTracy'sson,whoworkedin
the cement factory down on the river, and being cast off by her family had
droppedto thelevel ofherhusband's, withwhomaffairshadnot gonewell,
andwhohadlefthiswidowandchildreninpoverty.Nowadaysallthiswould
havesignifiedmuchless,asfarasthefamily'ssocialsituationwent;butinthe
compactlifeofsixtyyearsagoitwasahopelessfalltolapsefromtheheight
of Eaglewood to the depth in which the small shopkeepers and farmers of
Paul'sLandinghadtheirbeing.Itwasallwrong,Halomused,wrinklingher
youngbrowslikehermother'sintheefforttothinkout,thenandthere,while
shewaitedforherringtobeanswered,thequickestwayofputtinganendto
suchinjustice.
The development of her plan was interrupted by the appearance of young
Upton, who looked at her with such surprise that she felt more acutely than
everhersuddenlydiscoveredobligationtowardhisfamily.
"Oh,Upton,howareyou?IknowI'veinterruptedyouatsupper!Ihopeyour
motherwon'tbeveryangrywithme."
"Angry--?"youngTracyechoed,bewildered.Hepassedthebackofhishand
overhismouthintheefforttoconcealthefactthatshehadrightlysuspected
himofcomingfromsupper."Ithoughtmebbetherewassomethingwrongat
theWillows,"hesaid.
"The Willows! No. Or rather, yes, it is about the Willows--" She burst out
laughing."Don'tlooksofrightened,poorUpton!Thewrongdoing'smine,all
mine.IbelieveIpromisedtomeetyourcousintherethisafternoon,tolethim
takealookatthebooks...."ShelookedinterrogativelyatUpton,andcaught
hismotionofassent."Didn'tI?Yes.Well--andIdidn'tgo.Itwasallmyfault.
ThefactisIwas...prevented...atthelastminute.Ishouldsoliketosee
himandexplain...."
"Oh," said Upton, with evident relief. He glanced about him timidly, away
fromhersweepingsearchingeyes:"Ifyou'llstepintotheparlour,MissHalo--
"
Sheshookherhead."No,Iwon'tdothat,oryourmother'llfeelsheoughtto
leave her supper to receive me. And I've only got a minute--I'm meeting a
friendatthestation,"sheremindedherselfwithastart,forthatalsoshehad
beennearforgetting."Soifyou'lljustaskyourcousin--Vance,that'shisname,
isn'tit?--askhimtocomeouthereandsaytwowordstome..."
"Oh,certainly,"Uptonagreed.Heturnedbackintothehouse,butthevisitor
caughthimbythesleeve."Upton!Listen.Don'tmentionmyname;don'ttell
Vance I'm here. Just say it's somebody with a message--somebody with a
message,"sherepeated,tryingwithhersharpitalicstoborethefactintothe
youth'sbrain.
"Oh,certainly,"Uptonrepeated.Hewalkedawaytothebackofthehouse,and
Héloïse,alreadypartlyridofherburdenofself-reproach,asshealwaystended
tobethemomentshehadgivenitexpression,stoodlooking
absently over the garden, the broken-down fence, and the darkness already
gatheringinthefoldsofthehills.
Sheheardanotherstep,andsawVanceWeston.Hestoodgazingatherwith
wide open eyes, his face small and drawn from his recent illness. In the
twilight of the library at the Willows he had not looked so boyish; now she
wasstruckbyhisfrailnessandimmaturity,andfeltsorrierthaneverthatshe
hadfailedtokeepherpromise.
"It'sme,Vance.I'vecometoapologizeaboutthisafternoon.""Oh--"hebegan,
asawkwardlyasUpton.
"YouwenttotheWillowsafterlunch,andwaitedforme?"Henoddedwithout
speaking.
"Waitedhours?"
"Ididn'tmind.Isatintheporch.Ilikedit."
"Well,itwashideousofme--hideous!Idon'tknowhow..."
Helookedatherinsurprise."Howcouldyouhelpit?Uptonsaidsomething
preventedyou--"
"Ah--thenhetoldyouIwashere?"Shelaughedwithamusement,andrelapsed
intoself-accusal."Itwasworse,muchworse!WhatItoldUptonwasn'ttrue.
Nothingpreventedme--andnobody.Isimplyforgot.Thedaywassoheavenly-
-wasn'tit?Iwentoffalone,upthemountain,tobatheinapoolinthewoods;
andItooksomebooksandthedogs;andIforgoteverything....Canyouever
forgive me?" She stretched her hands out, but he stood and looked at them,
bewildered,asifnotbelievingsuchagiftcouldbemeantforhim,evenforthe
spaceofatouch.
"A pool in the woods . . . is it anywhere near here? Could I get to it?" he
questionedeagerly.
"Ofcourseyoucould.I'lltakeyou.It'sthedivinestplace!Inweatherlikethis
it'sbettereventhanbooks....Butyoushallseethebookstoo,"sheadded,
suffusinghiminhersuddensmile.
Hereddenedslightly,withtheflushofconvalescence,which leavesthe face
palerwhenitgoes."I--that'sawfullykind..."
"No. I'm never kind. But I like to share my treasures--sometimes." She
continued to look at him, noting with a sort of detached appreciation, as
characteristicofherastheoutwardglow,thegoodshapeofhisheadwithits
shockofrumpledbrownhair,thebreadthandmodellingofhisforehead,and
the strong planting of the nose between his widely set eyes, the gray eyes
which sometimes seemed to bring his whole self to their surface, and
sometimes to draw it back into an inaccessible retreat, as when she had
surprisedhimover "KublaKhan" attheWillows. Decidedly,shethought,in
sayingthatshehadnotgonetoofar.Shewasjealousofwhatshecalledher
treasures; but here was someone with whom they might be shared. Yes, she
wouldlethimseethepool....Butwhen?Herlifewasalwayscrowdedwith
projects, engagements, fragments of unfinished work; there were always
people arriving at Eaglewood, or opportunities to dash off from it (with
visitorswhohadmotors),orpassionatelyabsorbingthingstobedealtwithon
the spot--as she was dealing with the Weston boy now. Yes, better do it at
once,beforeotherthingscrowdedin.Itwouldbethefriendliestwayofwiping
outherforgetfulness....
"Doyougetupearly?"sheasked."Doyoucareaboutsunrises?"
He coloured again, with pleasure, as it seemed. Her elliptic interrogatory
seemedtohavenofearsforhim."Yes.Iguessthepoolwouldbegreatthen,"
hesaid.
"Oh,well,we'llseetheHudsonfirst.Youcan'tseeitfromhere,canyou?"She
felt a sudden contempt for the unimaginativeness of living like the Tracys.
"You've noideawhat itis fromEaglewood--andbetter stillfrom upabove--
from the ridge of Thundertop. The river's like a sea at that hour. You don't
speak German?" He made a negative gesture, and she added: "I was only
goingtoquotesomethingfromFaust--you'llreaditsomeday--butnowjust
listentothesound:
"'DieSonnetöntnachalterWeise
InBrudersphärenWettgesang.
UndihrevorgeschriebeneReise
VollendetsiemitDonnergang.
IhrAnblickgiebtdenEngelnStärke
Wennkeinersieergründenmag,
DieunbegreiflichhohenWerke
SindherrlichwieamerstenTag.'
"Isn'tthatbeautifultoyou,justasmeremusic,withoutanymeaning?Besides,
thatwholequestionofmeaninginpoetry...IhaveanoldfriendIwrangle
with about it by the hour . . ." She broke off, and gathering up her whole
attention,poured it for a moment intothegazesheshedon him. "I have an
idea!Ifyou'renotafraidofgettingtootired(you'vebeenill,Iknow),whatdo
yousaytomybringingthecardowntothecornerofthelanetomorrow,about
halfanhourbeforesunrise?I'llrunyouuptoThundertopfirst,andwe'llhave
apicnicbreakfastbythepool.Doesthattemptyou?Onlyyou'llhavetoget
up--when?Half-pasttwo,Isuppose!Andwe'llseethestarsfadelikeflowers,
andanewworldborn--don'tyoufeelit'sanewworldeverymorning?Andit
willbeallours,withnoonetointerfere,orspoilit--Oh,Vance,"shebrokeoff,
liftingherwristtohershort-sightedeyes."Idobelievemywatchhasstopped!
Thebrute!Canyoutellmethetime?I'vegottomeetafriendatthestation,
andit'snearlydark,andthecar'sonlygoingononeleg...."Hepulledouta
new-lookingwatch,andgaveherthehour."Oh,misery!canImakeit?Well,
I'llhavetotry,orLewiswon'thavehissuitcasetilltomorrow;andheloathes
borrowingpyjamas."Shestoodpoisedintheduskoftheporchasifheroutcry
hadgivenherwings;thensheturnedandheldoutherhand.ThistimeVance
took it in his. "Well--so long. Don't oversleep yourself! I'll be on the stroke
tomorrow,"shelaughed.
Sherandownthestepsandscrambledintothecar,andtheProvidencewhich
caresfortheimprovidentcarriedhertothestationjustintimeforthearrival
ofthetrainfromNewYork.
A perspiring throng was pouring out of the station, but she had to wait for
sometime before shewasjoined by afair-hairedyoung man inalight gray
suit,whosemovementshadthedeliberationofanervoustravellerdetermined
tokeepcool.
Thetwo greeted each other withfriendlyfamiliarity."Iwasafraid you'd get
tiredofwaiting,andrunawaybeforeIturnedup,"theyoungmansaid,ashe
puthimselfandhissuitcaseintothemotor,"butIdidn'twanttogetmixedup
withthatdrippingcrowd."
Sherepliedwithalaughthatrunningawaywasthelastthingthemotorwas
thinkingof,andthatitwasdoubtfuliftheywouldn'thavetopushherup
the hill or drop her at a garage for repairs. But this did not seem to dismay
him.
"IsupposeLorry'sbeenoutinheragain,"hemerelyremarked;andMissSpear
rejoined that it was no use trying to hide the family secrets from him. He
settledhimselfcomfortablyatherside,andsheputherhandonthewheel.The
car, after making a spasmodic dash, hovered a moment between arrest and
movement,andthenspurtedupthemountainasifnothingintheworldhad
beenthematter with it. As they bumpeduptheroadunder the dark arch of
overhangingtreesHalolapsedintosilence,herattentionseeminglyabsorbed
in the delicate task of persuading the motor to forget its grievances till they
weresafelylandedatEaglewood.Inrealityhermindwasstilllingeringover
hertalkwithyoungWeston,andhiscuriouswayofleapingstraightatthegist
ofthings,aswhen,attheWillows,hehadaskedherassoonassheappearedin
thedoorwaywhohadwritten"KublaKhan,"andjustnowhadseizeduponher
mentionofamountainpool,instantlycrying:"CouldIgettoit?"Thatwayof
disposingofpreliminaries,brushingthemasidewithanimpatientshake,ashe
tossed the tumbled hair from his forehead--what a sense it gave of a latent
power under his unformed boyishmanner. And what a wonderful thing life
would be without idle preliminaries--as clear of smoke and rubbish as the
crystal world of sunrise she was going to show him from the mountain!
Getting at once to the heart of things: that was the secret. But how many
peopleknowit,orhadanyideawheretheheartofthingsreallywas?...
Shefeltatouchonherarm."Penny,Halo."
"My thoughts? I don't know. . . . Well, yes." She gave a little laugh. "I was
thinkingI'dspentthirtydollarsthisafternoon,andwhatI'dboughtwithit."
"Newhat?"
Shelaughed."Exactly.Anewhat--awishing-cap!"
Helaughedtoo,withaneasyvagueairofassentandapproval."Thoughwhy
you women keep on buying new hats as you do, when you all of you go
bareheaded--"
"Ah," she murmured, "that's what makes it such fun. Art for art's sake.
Besides,asithappens,mynewhat'sinvisible,andI'vegotitonatthisvery
minute...."
"Well,ifyouhaveit'sawfullybecoming,"herejoined.
"Howsilly!Whenyouknowyoucan'tseeit--"
"Idon'tsomuchcareaboutthat,ifIcanseewhat'sgoingonunderneathit."
Shefellsuddenlysilent,andheaddedinthesamequietvoice:"Halo,canI?"
"Justwhatisityouwanttosee?"
"Well--justifyouthinkwe'reengaged."
Shedrew awayslightly fromhisgesture. "Whenyou thinkweare italways
makesmethinkwe'renot."
"Oh well--I'll try not to think about it at all then," he rejoined good-
humouredly.
Tothisatthemomentshemadenoanswer,andtheydroveonagaininsilence
undertheoverhangingboughs;butassheturnedthemotorinatthegateshe
said,withanotherofherfugitivelaughsandeyesbentonhis:"Yousee,Lewis,
I'maslikethisoldcarashertwinsister.Whenshesaysshewon'tshealmost
alwaysdoes."
IX
The summer darkness rustled with the approach of dawn. At the foot of the
lane below the Tracys' Vance Weston felt the stir as if it were one with the
noise in his own temples: a web of sounds too tenuous to be defined or
isolated, but something so different from the uniform silence which had
envelopedtheworldanhourearlierthateverybladeofgrassandfeatherof
birdnowseemedsighingandrufflinginthedarkness.
Vancehadcreptunheardoutofthesleepinghouse,andnow,intheobscurity
of the lane, sat on a stone under a twisted thorn tree and listened for the
splutteroftheEaglewood motor.Miss Spear might forgethim again, as she
hadforgottenhim(howhelikedherforowningit!)thedaybefore;orthecar,
whichshehadsaidwasgoingononeleg,mightfalldeadlame,andleaveher
strandedbeforeshecouldgetdownthemountain.Buthedidnotreallybelieve
thateitherofthesethingswouldhappen.Thereare
dayswhichgiveyou,intheverymomentofwaking,theassurancethatthey
werebornforyou,areyourstodoasyoupleasewith;thiswasoneofthemfor
Vance.
He had been, not offended, but hurt and a little bewildered, at Miss Spear's
failuretocometotheWillowsthepreviousafternoon,aftersendinghimword
that if he met her there she would let him spend a long afternoon with the
books.Shehadtakenthe trouble to ask for Upton at the nursery, where she
hadcalledtopickupabasketofplantsforhermother,andhadinstructedhim
totellhiscousinVancetobeattheWillowspunctuallyatthree,andtolether
knowincasehecouldnotcome.ItwasthetenthdayafterVance'sarrival,and
thatverymorninghehadmadeuphismindtogotoNewYork.Hewasgoing
alone,forUptoncouldonlygetawayonSundays;moreover,Vanceknewby
this time that as a guide his cousin would be of little use. All that Upton
seemed to know of the metropolis was where the wholesale seedmen and
nurserymenhadtheiroffices;asameansofintroducingVancetotheworldof
journalism Laura Lou would have been about as helpful. Vance therefore
meanttogoalone,notwithanyhopeofarrivingwithinspeakingdistanceof
aneditor,buttoslakehiscuriositywithasightoftheoutsideofsomeofthe
bignewspaperoffices,andgetanimpressionofthegeneralaspectofthecity.
He had waited for over a week, partly because of the oppressive heat (his
motherwasright,itwasworsethanChicago)andhisownlingeringphysical
weakness,butchieflybecausehisafternooninthelibraryattheWillows,and
thebriefapparitionthereofthegirlwhomighthavebeenoldMissLorburn's
reincarnation,hadthrownhimintoasortofprolongeddaydream,whichwas
brokenonlybyintervalsoffrenziedcomposition.
When the summons came from Miss Spear to meet Miss Spear again at the
WillowshethrewNewYorktothewinds,andlivedthroughthenexttwenty-
fourhoursinatremorofexpectation.Longbeforethreehewasunlockingthe
gateofthedesertedplaceandpushinghisbicyclethroughthegrassandclover
of the drive. The day was cooler--it would have been a good day for New
York--andthegreenairunderthewillowstrembledwithadeliciousfreshness.
Vancesatdownonthedoorstep.Fromwherehesathecouldgetaglimpseof
thegatethroughtheshimmeringbranches,andwatchtheshadowsofthetrees
wheelslowlyacrossthelawn.Theairwasrichwiththesmellofsyringas,that
smellwhichissolikethesoundofbeesonathunderyday.Vanceleanedhis
headbackagainstapillaroftheporchandwaited....
HehadbeensincereinsayingtoMissSpearthatwhilehewaitedhehadnot
beenimpatientorangry.Hehadalwayshadahabitofrumination
unusualathisage,andeverythinginthisnewlifewassostrange,sounreal,
thateveninitsdisappointmentsanddenialshefoundfoodforhisimagination.
The spell of Miss Lorburn's house was stronger now than on his first visit,
because in the interval he had lived among people, plain unimaginative
people, who nevertheless took old houses for granted, took age and
permanenceforgranted,seemedinfacttolivewithonefootinthegraveof
the past, like the people pushing back their tombstones in a queer stiff
sculptureoftheLastJudgmentthathehadseenreproducedinsomeillustrated
travelpaper.ThefactthattheTracys,whoneverthoughtofanythingbutthe
present,wereyetsotacitlyimbuedwiththepast,soacquiescentinitspower
anditsfatality,thattheyattachedsucharitualsignificancetophraseslike"a
verylongtimeago,"and"it'salwaysbeenso,"and"nothingwillbechanged
as long as any of the family are alive," had completely altered Vance's
perspective, transforming his world from the staring flatness of a movie
"close-up" to a many-vistaed universe reaching away on all sides from this
empty and silent house. Even the thought of the books inside the house, so
close yet inaccessible, did not long tantalize him. It was enough to sit there
waiting,listeningforthenoiseofthemotor,andintheintervalsstraininghis
ear to catch the secret coming and going of the Past behind the barred
threshold.
ItwasonlywhenduskfellthatherousedhimselftothefactthatMissSpear
hadfailedhim. Thenhisboyishpridereasserted itself,andforamomenthe
felt sore and humiliated. He remembered things Upton had said: "She never
staysanywheremorethanfiveminutes....Agentlemanfriendcalledforher
inhiscar...."andsubsequentallusionspickedupfromMrs.Tracy,whohad
been speechless with surprise when she learned that Miss Spear intended to
devote an afternoon to showing Vance the books at the Willows. "Well, I
never! Anyhow, she's got the right to--I guess some day the place will be
hers,"wasoneofthethingsMrs.Tracyhadsaid;andLauraLou,breakingher
habitualsilence,hadaddedinherquickflutteringway:"Idon'tbelieveshe'll
ever live at Paul's Landing. She says she means to travel all the time when
she'smarried...."
All this wove itself into Vance's own picture of the pale dark-haired young
woman who had appeared to him so suddenly, and taken up the verse of
"Kubla Khan" in her rich chanting voice. He had assumed her to be some
yearsolderthanhimself, andat nineteen,andto amind asignorantofclass
distinctions as his, such a difference of age put a much greater distance
between them than the fact that Miss Spear lived at "the big house" (as the
Tracys called Eaglewood), or even that she was to inherit the Willows, or
meanttotravelallthetimewhenshewasmarried....Vancethoughtofheras
goddesslikeandremote,mistressofthekeysofknowledgeand
experience;hernoticehadflushedhimwithpride,butitseemedapartofthe
mysteriousunrealityofeverythinginthisnewworld.Ashegottohisfeetand
walkedbacktothegateoftheWillowshefelthisfirstpangofwoundedpride.
She had forgotten him; forgotten him because he was too young and
insignificanttoberemembered;becausefellowscalledforherandcarriedher
offintheircars;becausesheneverstayedanywheremorethanfiveminutes...
.
Ah,howdifferentlyhethoughtofhernow!Sinceherbreathlessarrivalatthe
Tracyhouseonthepreviousevening,hersummoninghimouttotheporchto
accuseandexcuseherself,thegoddesshadbecomewomanagain,andhewas
sure that the woman was to be trusted. She still seemed to hima good deal
olderthanhimself,butthatnowgavehimahappysenseofeaseandfreedom,
insteadofthefeverishexcitementwhichtheadvancesofagirlofhisownage
wouldhaveoccasioned....
Ashewaitedinthedarknesstheearlynoisesofawakeninglifebegantostir.
Heheardthelongeeriescreamofatrainfaraway;thentherumbleofamotor
truckdowntheturnpikeatthefootofthehill,followedbythejoltofalame
farm horse coming in with garden produce; and lastly, close by, the cluck-
cluckoftheEaglewoodmotor--andshewasthere.
"Vance!" she called gaily, half under her breath, as though instinctively
adaptinghervoicetothewhisperedsoundsofthehour.Hehadhishandonthe
doorofthecar,andinamomentwassittingatherside."Nowifshe'llonly
start!"thegirlsighed.Thecarkickedandjibbedandstoodstockstill,asithad
theeveningbefore;thenitwasoffwitharush,asifawareofthechallengeto
itspowers,andamusedatsounusualanadventure.
Vancewas toofullof happyemotion tospeak.When MissSpear said:"Did
youthink I was goingtoforget you again?" hemerelyanswered:"No," and
shelaughed,asifthesimplicityoftheanswerpleasedher,andthenfellsilent
too.
Whentheystartedupthewoodedroadtothemountaintherestilllingeredso
muchofnightunderthebranchesthatshehadtoturnontheheadlights,and
the white stretch of illumination on each side of the motor was filled with
layeruponlayerofdelicatelydrawnmotionlessleaves,betweenwhichtheruts
of the road seemed to Vance to rise up and meet them as they climbed. All
thesedetailsburntthemselvesintohisbrainwithacuriousprecision,asifhe
hadbeencrawlingatasnail'spacethroughaneternityofoverarchingfoliage,
whileatthesametimethewheezycarseemedtobewhirlinghimbreathlessly
tounknowndistances;sothatwhentheheadlightspaintedthesuddenpicture
oftwogatepostsofgraystone
flankingadrivehewasstartledtohearMissSpearsay:"There'sEaglewood,"
for he thought they must long since have reached the ridge of the mountain
aboveit.
Theystillmounted;theairwasgrowingcooler;atlastitwasalmostcold.The
headlights paled gradually in the imperceptible growth of dawn, and when
MissSpearrememberedtoturnthemouttheroadwasscarcelylessdistinct,
though everything appeared farther away and softer to the eye. At last the
motorcameoutofthewoodland,highuponastretchofroughcountryroad
betweenfields.Theskyarchedoverheaddimandpallid,withhereandtherea
half-drowned star like a petal in gray water. They passed once more under
trees,theworldgrewalldarkagain,andMissSpear,stoppingthemotor,said:
"Here."
Theywereinatree-shadowedtrailleadingfromtheroadtothefootofasteep
overhanging rock. "There's Thundertop," Miss Spear said. She jumped out,
and Vance after her. They scrambled up from ledge to ledge and finally
reachedaprojectingrockyspurfromwhichtheysaw,farbelowandaround,
the outspread earth, its lonely mountain masses and habitable slopes, and
hollowsstillindistinct,allwaitinginanimateforthelight.
"Ifitshouldn'thappen!"MissSpearexclaimed.Vanceturnedtoherinwonder.
Shehadspokenhisverythought;andtoyouthsuchcoincidencesaredivine.
"Orifit hadneverhappenedbefore--ifwe wereactuallylookingatthe very
first....Ah!"shebrokeoffonadeepbreath;forafaintvibration,lessoflight
than of air, a ripple of coming life, had begun to flow over the sky and the
oppositemountains,hushingeveryincipientsound.Therewasalullafterthat
firsttremor;alulllastingsolongthatitseemedasif,afterall,nothinginthe
landscapehadmovedoraltered.ThenMissSpear,layingherhandonVance's
shoulder, turned him about toward a break in the swarthy fell of the eastern
mountains; and through it came the red edge of the sun. They watched in
silence as it hung there apparently unmoving; then they glanced away for a
moment, and when they looked back they saw that it had moved; saw the
forerunningglowburnawaytheashenblurintheforesthollows,theuppersky
whiten,anddaylighttakepossessionoftheair.Againtheyturnedwestward,
lookingtowardtheHudson,andnowthetawnysuffusionwasdrawingdown
theslopesofthefarthershore,tillgradually,verygradually,theriverhollows
also were washed of their mists, and the great expanse of the river shone
brightassteelintheclearshadow.
Vance drew a deep breath. His lips were parted, but no word came. He met
Miss Spear's smiling eyes with a vague stare. "Kubla Khan?" she said. He
nodded.
"You'dneverseenoneofoursunrises?""No,onlyovertheprairies."
"Well,thatmustberathersplendidtoo.Butverydifferent--likeseeingitover
thesea."
Hemadenoresponse,forhehadneverseenthesea,andtherewasnoroomin
hissoulformorenewvisions.
"It's less of an effort to see the sun rise in Illinois, I suppose?" Miss Spear
continued. "You only have to look out of your window. Here it involves
mountaineering,andit'sgivenmeamountaineer'sappetite;hasn'tityou?"
Hedidn'tknow;hesupposedso;buthehardlyheardwhatshesaid.Hiswhole
sentientselfwasstillawayfromhim,intheblueandgoldoftheuprolling.He
would have liked to lie down there on the edge of Thundertop between the
misty splendours below and the pure light above, and let the hours drift by
while the chariot of the day described its great circuit before him. At such
momentshewasalmostdisembodied.
"Come along, Vance! I'm ravening. Ham and eggs over a gipsy fire!" She
slippeda comrade-arm through his, and they started to scrambledownfrom
theireminence,leavingateachstepafragmentofthemightyspectaclebehind
them. Vance, reluctantly following, thought to himself: "She never stays
anywheremorethanfiveminutes--"
Butbythetimetheyhadreachedthemotorhungerhadseizedhimtoo,andhe
waslaughingwithherwhileshemadesurethatthelunchbasketandthermos
weresomewhereamongtheoddsandendsundertheseat,andthinkinghehad
nevermetanybodywhomadethingssoeasy,yetwassomehowsogailyaloof.
Withafreshexpenditureofpersuasionandviolenceshegotthemotorgoing,
and they backed out of the trail, and started down the mountain. About
halfwayofthedescentMissSpearturnedintoanothertrail,deeplyshadowed,
and they took out their provisions, and began to climb through the forest.
Presentlythelittlewoodlandnoises,twitterofbirdsandstirofleaf,wereall
merged inthetinkleofan unseenbrook, andalittlefartheron theymet the
brookitself,leapingdownwetledgesinadripoffernsandgrasses,tillitled
themtotherockypoolencircledwithturfofwhichMissSpearhadtoldhim.
Thereshe
unpacked the basket, and Vance brought two stones, and some twigs to lay
acrossthem;buttheycouldfindnodryfuelinthatmossydrippingplace,and
hadto eat theireggsraw,andmunchthe ham betweenslicesof stale bread.
Luckily the coffee was piping hot, and when Vance had drained his cup his
tongue was loosened, and there poured from him all that he had been
revolvinginhismind,andthirstingtoutter,sincehisfirstencounterwithMiss
SpearattheWillows.Hecouldhardlykeepthethreadofthetalkinhishands,
soquicklydid oneideatumbleoutafteranother, andso manynewtrainsof
thoughtdidMissSpear'sanswersstartinthecovertsofhismind.
Afterward,inlookingbackattheadventure,he wonderedatthefactthathe
hadhardlybeenconsciousofhiscompanion'sageorsex,hardlyawareofthe
gravebeautyofherface,hadfeltheronlyasthemysteriousvehicleofallthe
new sensations pouring into his soul--as if she had been the element
harmonizingthescene,orabeingbornofthesunriseandtheforest.
Yetafterwardhesawnothingetherealorremoteabouther;tohismemoryshe
becameagainadark-hairedgirlwiththoughtfuleyesandanimatedlips,who
leaned back, her hat tossed off, her bare arms folded behind her head, and
plied him with friendly questions. The trouble was that every one of the
questions, though to her so evidently simple and matter-of-course for him,
called a new vision out of the unknown, as the car's headlights, while they
climbed the mountain, had kept on painting pictures on the darkness. The
simplestthingsshesaidpresupposedafamiliaritywithsomethingorotherthat
he was ignorant of: allusions to people and books, associations of ideas,
imagesandmetaphors,eachgivinganelectricshocktohisimagination,and
makinghimwanttolingerandquestionbeforeshehurriedhimontothenext
point.
Whatshe wanted,for herpart,was evidentlyjust tobehelpful andfriendly.
Shehadguessed,perhaps,thattherewasnotmuchnourishmentforhiminlife
attheTracys',andwonderedwhatdirectionhewouldtakewhenthatinterval
was over, as she assumed it would be soon. He acknowledged that he had
acceptedhisparents'proposaltosendhimtohiscousinsforhisconvalescence
becauseitwasawayofbeingbroughtnearerNewYork,whichatthemoment
wastheplacehemostwantedtogetto;andwhensheaskedwhy--whetherjust
asabigsight,orwithsomespecialobject?heanswered,feelinghimselfhot
fromfeettoforeheadattheconfession,yetunabletoholditback,that,yes,
whathewantedwastoliveinNewYorkandbeawriter.
"Awriter?Isee.Butthat'sinteresting."MissSpearraisedherselfonherelbow
and reached for a cigarette, while her eyes continued to rest on his crimson
countenance."Tellmemoreaboutit.Whatdoyouwanttowrite?"
He threw back his head and gave back her look with a thumping heart.
"Poetry."
Herfacelitup."Oh,butthat'ssplendid!You'vewrittenalotalready,I
suppose?"
"Notalot.Some."Howflatthemonosyllablessounded!Andallthewhilehis
brain rustled with rich many-branching words that were too tangled up with
eachothertobeextricated.MissSpearsmiled,andsaid:"Thisisjusttheplace
forpoetry,isn'tit?Dorepeatsomethingofyours."
Vance'sheartdropped backtosilence.Noonehadever beforeaskedhimto
recite his verses. The inside of his mouth grew parched and there was a
buzzinginhishead.Thisgirlhadcommandedhim,hereinthismagicalplace,
torecitetohersomethinghehadwritten!Hiscouragebegantoebbawaynow
thathewasconfrontedwiththisformidableopportunity.
Hemoistenedhisdrylips,closedhismind'seyesasifpreparingtoleapinto
space,andsaid:"'Trees.'"
"Isthatthetitle?"
"Yes. They were the first things that struck me when I got here--the trees.
They'redifferentfromours,thicker,therearemoreofthem...Idon'tknow..
."
"Yes,andso--"
Hebegan:"Arcane,aloof,andsecretasthesoul..."
Shesatmotionless,restingherchinonherliftedhand.Hercigarettewentout,
and dropped to the damp mosses of the poolside. "Secret as the soul," she
murmured."Yes."Shenoddedsoftly,butdidnotspeakagain,andattimes,as
he went on, he forgot her presence and seemed alone with his own
imagination; then again he felt her so close that her long meditative face,
droopingslightly,seemedtointerposeitselfbetweenhiseyesandwhathewas
saying,andhewaschilledbythethoughtthatwhen,inamoment,heceased
reciting,thefacewouldbethere,unescapable,rhadamanthine,likedeathatthe
endoflife.Hepouredoutthelastwordsofthepoeminarush,
andtherewasalongsilence,anendlesssilence,itseemedtothepoet,before
hishearerspoke.
"Yourecitetoofast;youswallowhalfthewords.Oh,whyaren'tpeopleinour
countrytaught--?Buttherearebeautifulthings..."Shepaused,andseemed
tomusediscriminatinglyuponthem."Thataboutthecityofleaves
. . . I wish you'd write it out for me, will you? Then I can read it over to
myself.Ifyouhaveabitofpaper,dowriteitnow."
Vancehadtheinevitablebitofpaper,andthefountainpenfromwhichhewas
neverparted.Hepulledoutthepaper,spreaditonastone,andbegantowrite.
Hewasmortifiedthatshethoughthisreadingsobad,andhishandshookso
thathefearedshewouldhardlyfindthepoemmoreintelligiblethanwhenhe
had recited it. At last he handed her the paper, and she held it to her short-
sightedeyesduringanotherawfulintervalofsilence.
"Yes--therearebeautifulthingsinit.Thatimageofthecityofleaves...and
thesoul'scitybeingbuiltofallthemurmursandrustlingsofourimpressions,
emotions,instincts..."Shelaidthepagedown,andliftedherhead,drawing
her eyelids together meditatively. "By the way, do you know what the first
temple at Delphi was built of?" She paused, smiling in expectation of his
enjoyment. "Of birds' feathers and honey. Singing and humming! Sweetness
andlightness!Isn'tthatmagical?"
Vancegazed ather, captivatedbutbewildered. Didheunderstand--or did he
not? Birds' feathers and honey? His heart beat with the strange disturbing
beautyofthemetaphor--formetaphoritmustbe,ofcourse.Yetbodyingforth
what?Inhisexcitementoverthephrase,hisperplexityatthequestion,hefelt
himselfloutishandunresponsivefornotanswering.Buthecouldnotthinkof
anythingtosay.
"The First Church of Christ at Delphi? Christian Science, you mean? I'm
afraidIdon'tunderstand,"hestammeredatlength.
She stared as if she didn't either; then she gave a little laugh. "Well, no,
nothingquitesorecent.ThelegendisaboutthefirsttempleofDelphi--(Imean
the Greek Delphi, the famous shrine, where Apollo's oracle was)-- well, the
legendis that the first temple was onlyahutoffeathers and honey,builtin
thatuninhabitedplacebythebeesandbirds,whoknewtherewasagodthere
longbeforemancameanddiscoveredhim...."Shebrokeoff,andfoldedup
thepaper."That'sasubjectforanotherpoem,isn'tit?...Butthisone,"she
added, rousing herself, and turning again to Vance with her look of eager
encouragement,"thisIdolikeimmensely.You'llletmekeepit?Ihaveagreat
friendwhoreallycaresforpoetry,andIwantto
showittohim.Andwon'tyourepeatanother?Pleasedo.Ilovelyinghereand
listeningtobeautifulwordsallmixedupwiththesoundofwaterandleaves..
. Only you know, Vance," she added, fixing him suddenly with a piercing
humorous glance, "I should leave 'urge' as a noun to the people who write
blurbsforbookjackets;and'dawn'andlorn'donotrhymeinEnglishpoetry,
notyet...."
A silence followed. The girl's praise and understanding--above all, her
understanding--hadswungVancesohighabovehiseverydayselfthatitwasas
if, at her touch, wings had grown from him. And now, abruptly, her verbal
criticism,suggestingotherpossibilitiesofthesamekind,hintingatabyssesof
errorintowhichhemightdropunawaresatanymoment,broughthimdown
like a shot bird. He hardly understood what she meant, did not know what
therewastofindfaultwithintheEnglishofthepeoplewhowroteforbook
jackets--it was indeed the sort of thing he aspired to excel in some day
himself--and still less understood what she meant when she attacked the
validity of rhymes as self-evident to the ear as "lorn" and "dawn." Perverse
and arbitrary as she evidently was--and sound-deaf, probably--she might as
wellhavesaid(verylikelywould,ifchallenged)that"morn"and"gone"did
notrhymeinEnglishpoetry!Hewassopassionatelyinterestedineverything
concerningthematerialandtheimplementsofhisartthatatanothertimehe
would have welcomed a discussion of the sort; but in this hour of creative
exaltation, when his imagination was still drenched with the wonder of the
adventure,andthegirl'spraise,asshelistened,hadalreadystartedatwitterof
newrhythmsandimagesinhisbrain,itwaslikefallingfromamortalheight
tohavesuchpraisequalifiedbypettypatronizingcomments,whichwereall
themoredisturbingbecausehefoundnoanswertothem.
"Don'trhyme--inEnglishpoetry?"hestammered,palingundertheblow.But
Miss Spear had sprung to her feet and stood looking down on him with the
sportivebutremoteradianceofsomewoodlandspirit.
"Oh,butwhatdoesallthatmatter?Idon'tknowwhatmademeevenspeakof
it." She continued to look at him, and as she did so, the anxious groping
expression of her short-sighted eyes, as she tried to read his, suddenly
humanized her face and brought her close again. "It was just my incurable
maniafortakingeverythingtopieces.Gildingthelily--whowasthefoolwho
said that wasn't worth doing? . . . But I shouldn't have spoken, you know,
Vance,ifIdidn'tbelieveyouhavethegift...therealgift...'thesublime
awkwardnessthatbelittlestalent,'asGeorgeFrensidecallsit..."
Hisheartswelledashelistened.Howsheknewhowtobindupthehurtsshe
made!"Thesublimeawkwardness..."Hetrembledwiththeshockof
the phrase. Who talked or wrote like that, he wondered? Was it anyone he
could see, or whose books he could get hold of--in the Willows library,
perhaps?"Who'sthatyouspokeof?"heaskedbreathlessly.
"ThemanwhocantalktoyoubetterthananybodyelseaboutEnglishpoetry."
"Oh,doyouknowhim?CanIseehim?Ishealive?"
To each question Miss Spear, still looking down on him, nodded her assent.
"He's the friend I spoke of just now. He's staying at Eaglewood. He's the
literarycriticofTheHour."Shewatchedtheeffectofthisannouncementwith
hersleepynarrowedglance."I'llbringhimdowntoseeyousomeday-
-thedayIshowyoutheWillowslibrary,"shesaid.
Vance had never heard of Frenside, or the paper called The Hour; but the
assurance with which she pronounced the names stamped them with
immediate importance. His heart was beating furiously; but such shining
promises were no longer enough for him. Upton's allusions to Miss Spear's
unreliability and elusiveness came back to him; and he remembered with a
new resentfulness his hours of waiting at Miss Lorburn's door. Perhaps
somethingofthisincredulityshowedinhiseyes,forMissSpearadded,with
oneofhersuddentouchesofgentleness:"Ican'ttellyounowjustwhatday;
butI'llleavewordwithUptonatthenursery,IpromiseIwill.Andnowcome,
Vance,wemustpackupandstart.Oursunriseisn'toursanylonger.Itbelongs
tothewholestupidworld...."
X
Wakingnearnoonthatdayfromthesleepintowhichshehadfallenafterthe
vigil on Thundertop, Héloïse Spear sat up in bed and thought: "What's
wrong?"
Shestretchedherarmsaboveherhead,pushedbackherhairfromhersleepy
eyes, and looked about her room, which was cooled by the soft green light
filteredthroughtheleavesoftheancienttrumpetcreeperaboveherwindow.
Foramomentortwothepresentwasdrownedintherememberedblazeofthe
sunrise,andtheenjoymentofthehungersatisfied
beside the pool; but already she knew that--as was almost invariable in her
experience--somethingdisagreeablelurkedintheheartofhermemories:asif
everyenjoymentinlifehadtobeboughtbyabother.
"Thatboyhaseyes--Iwasright,"shethought;andthen,immediately:"Oh,I
know, the motor!" For she had remembered, in the act of re-evoking young
Weston,thatonthewayhomethecarhadstoppedsuddenly,amileormore
aboveEaglewood,andthat,afteralongstruggle(duringwhichhehadstood
helplesslywatchingher,seeminglywithoutanideaastohowhemightcome
toheraid,)theyhadhadtoabandonitbytheroadside,andshehadpartedwith
hercompanionattheEaglewoodgatesaftertellinghimhowtofindhisway
homeonfoot.Sheherselfhadmeanttotakeacoupleofhoursofsleep,and
thenslipoutearlytocatchtheman-of-all-workbeforethehouseholdwasup,
andpersuadehimtogetthedelinquentmotorhomesomehow.Butassoonas
shehadundressed,andthrownherselfonherbed,shesankintothebottomless
sleepofyouth;andhereitwasnearlylunchtime,andeverybodydownstairs,
andtheabsenceofthemotordoubtlessalreadydiscovered!And,withmatters
still undecided between herself and Lewis Tarrant, she had not especially
wantedhimtoknowthatshehadbeenoutwithouthimtoseethesunrise--the
more so as he would never believe she had gone up to Thundertop
unaccompanied.
Ah,howsheenviedthegirlsofheragewhohadtheirowncars,wholedtheir
ownlives,sometimesevenhadtheirownbachelorflatsinNewYork!Except
asameanstoindependencericheswerenothingtoher;andtoacquirethemby
marriage, and then coldly make use of them for her own purposes, was as
distasteful to her as anything in her present life. And yet she longed for
freedom,andsawnootherwaytoit.Ifonlyhereagerinterestinlifehadbeen
matchedbysomecreativetalent!Shecouldhalfpaint,shecouldhalfwrite--
butherrealgift(andsheknewit)wasforappreciatingthegiftsofothers.Even
haddisciplineandindustryfosteredherslendertalentstheywouldhardlyhave
broughtheraliving.Shehadmeasuredherselfandknewit--andwhatelsewas
thereforherbutmarriage?"Oh,well,"shethought,forthethousandthtime,
"something may turn up . . ." which meant, as she knew, that her mother's
cousin, old Tom Lorburn, might drop off at any moment and leave her the
Willows, with enough moneytogetaway from it, and fromPaul'sLanding,
forever.
She heard her mother's fluttering knock, and Mrs. Spear came in, drooping,
distressed,anddimlybeautiful.
"Oh,Halo--asleepstill?I'msorrytodisturbyou,darling,butit'saftereleven"
("Iknow,Iknow,"grumbledHéloïse,alwaysimpatientoftheobvious),"and
somethingsotiresomehashappened.Themotorhas
disappeared.Jacobsayssomebodymusthavegotintothegarageinthenight.
The cook says she saw a dreadful-looking man hanging about yesterday
evening;butthetroubleisthatthegaragelockwasn'tbrokenopen--onlyitso
seldomislocked,asItoldyourfather.Yourfathersaysit'sLorryagain;he's
made such a dreadful scene before Lewis. . . . It's not so much the fact of
Lorry'sbeingoutallnight;butyourfatherthinkshe'ssoldthecar.Andifhe
hasweshallneverseeapennyofthemoney,"Mrs.Spearadded,confusedly
strugglingtodifferentiatethecausesof her distress, of which fear about the
moneywasclearlybyfarthemostpotent.
Héloïsesatupinbedandgazedathermother'stroubledcountenance."Even
now,"shethought,"hereyesarebeautiful;andshedoesn'tscrewthemupin
theuglywaythatIdo."Thensherousedherselftoreality."Whatnonsense--
nobodystolethemotor,"shesaid.
"ItwasLorry,then?He'stoldyou--?"
"He'stoldmenothing."Shepaused,lettingherimaginationtoyforamoment
withthetemptationtobesilent;thenshesaid:"Themotor'samileuptheroad,
toward Thundertop. It broke down, and I left it there myself early this
morning."TheideaofallowingLorrytobearthebruntofthestormhadlasted
nomorethanthetakingofbreathbetweentwowords;butithadstirredinher
an old residuum of self-disgust. Yet she did wish she had got the car safely
undercoverbeforeallthisfuss!
Hermotherstoodstaringatherwithastonishedeyes."You,Halo?Youhadthe
caroutinthemiddleofthenight?"
"Yes.Ihadthecarout.IwentuptoThundertoptoseethesunrise."
"With Lewis, darling?" Mrs. Spear's face brightened perceptibly; then it fell
again."But no, he wastherejust now when your fatherscoldedpoor Lorry,
andofcourseifhe'dbeenwithyou--"
"Hewasn'twithme.Hedoesn'tknowanythingaboutit."
"Halo!" her mother moaned, "And you chose this time--when he'd just
arrived!"Shepausedwithagestureofdespair."Whowaswithyou?"
Halo,slidingoutofbed,gotherfeetintoherfloppingMoroccanslippers,and
began to gather up her sponge and towels preparatory to an advance to the
bathroom."Oh,nobodyinparticular.JustthatyoungboyfromtheTracys'--"
Mrs.Speargaspedoutherperplexity."BoyfromTracys'?Youdon'tmean
Upton?"
"Ofcoursenot.Howridiculous!ImeanthecousinfromtheWestthatthey've
got staying there--the boy who's had typhoid fever. Didn't I tell you about
him?He'sratherextraordinary;fulloftalent,Ibelieve;andstarvingtodeath
for want of books, and of people he can talk to. I promised to spend an
afternoonwithhimattheWillows,andlethimbrowseinthelibrary,andthen
Iforgotallaboutit,andtomakeupforhavingchuckedhimIslippedoutearly
thismorningandranhimuptoThundertoptoseethesunrise.Itwasglorious.
Andhereadmesomeofhispoems--hemeanstobeapoet.Idobelievethere's
somethinginhim,Mother."
While Mrs. Spear listened the expression of her beautiful eyes passed from
anxiety to a sympathetic exaltation. As her daughter was aware, one could
neverspeakto Mrs. Spear of genius without kindling in her an irrepressible
ardourtoencourageanddirectit.
"But, my dear, how interesting! Why didn't you tell me about him before?
Couldn'tGeorgeFrensidedosomethingtohelphim?Couldn'thepublishhis
thingsinTheHour?Idohopeyouaskedhimtocomebacktolunch?"
Héloïselaughed.Hermother'senthusiasmsalwaysamusedher.Tohearofthe
presence,withininvitingdistance,ofayoungmanoftalent(talentwasalways
geniustoMrs.Spear)wasinstantlytomakeherforgetherfamilyandfinancial
cares,howeverpressing,andbegintowonderanxiouslywhatthecookcould
scrape together for lunch--a sincere respect for good food being one of the
anomaliesofheroddlyassortedcharacter,andasucculentmealherinstinctive
homagetocelebrity."Whattimedidyoutellhimtocome--oneorhalf-past?I
believeSusancouldstillmanageacheesesoufflé-
-butit'snearlytwelvenow."
"Yes;Iknowitis--andyoumustgivemeachancetotakemybath.Andhow
could I ask him to lunch? It wouldn't be decent, when he's staying with the
Tracys,who,afterall,aredistantconnectionsofours,andwhomwecertainly
don'twanttoinvite--dowe?"
Mrs. Spear, at this reminder, clasped her long expressive hands self-
reproachfully. "Oh, those poor Tracys! Yes, they are distant relations. But if
LorburnTracy,whowasapoorsortofmananyhow,andlessthannobodyon
his father's side, chose to marry the gardener's daughter at the Willows, we
could hardly be expected, could we . . . ? Not that that sort of thing really
mattersintheleast.Whyshouldit?Only--well,perhapswe'vebeensnobbish
abouttheTracys,darling.Doyouthinkwehave?There's
nothing I hate so much as being snobbish. Do you think we ought to send
Jacob down now with a note, and ask them all up to lunch with this young
novelistyouspeakof?Notanovelist--apoet?WhataheadI'vegot!Mydear,I
reallybelieveweoughtto.Isthereanynotepaperhere?Theresoseldomis,in
yourroom...butifyoucanfindascrap,dowritealinetoMrs.Tracy,and
say...say...well,putitasnicelyasyoucan...andsaythatJacobisat
theirdoor,withthecar,waitingtobringthemup;oh,withtheyoungman,of
course!Remindmeagainoftheyoungman'sname,mydear."
"Well,ifIsaidallthat,Mother,partofitwouldhardlybetrue,asthecar'sa
mile or more up the Thundertop road at this minute, and refuses to budge."
Héloïse let her mother's outcries evaporate, and continued quietly: "Besides,
youknowperfectlywellthatwecan'tasktheTracystolunch.Weneverhave,
andwhyshouldwenow?They'dhateitasmuchasweshould.They'replain
workingpeople,andtheyhavenothingonearthtosaytous,orwetothem.
Whyshouldwesuddenlypretendthecontrary?"
"Oh,Halo,howvulgarofyou!Iwonderhowyoucaneventhinksuchthings.
Allhumanbeingsoughttohavethingstosaytoeachother,ifonlytheymeet
onthebroadbasisofhumanityand...and..."
"Well,theTracyswouldn't;howcouldthey?They'veneverheardofthebroad
basisof humanity.If we had themherewithLewis and GeorgeFrenside,or
anyofour otherfriends,whatonearth shouldwefindtosay toeachother?
Theytalkanotherlanguage,anditcan'tbehelped.Butthisboyisdifferent,
andI'vepromisedtotakehimtotheWillowstogothroughthebooks,andto
bringGeorgedowntoseehimtheresomeday.Solet'sletitgoatthat...."
And Héloïse, followed by her mother's reproaches and ejaculations, made a
diveforthedooranddasheddownthepassagetothebathroom.
When she descended the worn shallow steps of the old staircase the lunch
gongwassounding,andMr.Spearwaspacingthehallinastateofrepressed
excitement.HaloandLorry,aschildren,hadfoundinapopularnaturalhistory
bookastrikingpictureofabristlingcaterpillarsittinguprightonitstail,with
the caption: "The male Puss-Moth when irritated after a full meal." They
instantly christened their progenitor the Puss-Moth, but modified the legend
byexplainingtostrangersthathewasmoreoftenirritatedbeforeafullmeal
thanafter--especiallywhenkeptwaitingforit.
Today Mr. Spear was unusually perpendicular and bristling, and his small,
rathertoocarefullymodeledfeatureswerepositivelygrimacingwithanger.To
hisdaughter long habit made thesightmorecomic than impressive; butshe
wasvexedthatthequestionofthemotorhadtobedealtwith.
"Halo, I suppose you know the car was taken out of the garage last night,
withoutthedoorlock'sbeingbroken,andthatithasnotsincebeenseen?Your
mothertellsme--"
Halonodded."Motherknows.I'veexplained.""Explained!Idon'tknowwhat
youcall--"
"Hullo,Lewis--goodmorning."Halointerruptedherfather'sdiatribetogreet
LewisTarrant,whocamelounginginfromtheverandah,followedbyGeorge
Frenside munching his eternal cigar. "Good morning, Frenny--if it's still
morning?Areyouallcomingtoassistatmyexecution?"shelaughed.
"Wewanttoheartheargumentforthedefence,"Frensideretorted,inhisdeep
voicewiththequeercrackinit.
"Isn'tany.Ipleadguilty.Ihadthecaroutinthesmallhours,andbustedher
coming down the Thundertop road. I had to get home on my own feet, and
that'sall."
"All--all? You say it was you who was out in the car in the middle of the
night?"Mr.SpearswungroundonyoungTarrant."Lewis--wasshe?"
LewisTarrant'sfaircomplexion,whichsocuriouslymatchedhisveryfairand
veryclearlightgrayeyes,grewsallowwithsurpriseandembarrassment.
"I--why,ofcourse,sir,ifshesaysso,"hestammered.
"'Says so'? Were you with her--or weren't you? If you weren't she's only
shieldingherbrotherforthehundredthtime;andGodknowswherethecar's
goneto,bythistime."
"Send Jacob up the road to see," Héloïse interrupted impatiently. She had
meanttocarrythethingoffwithalighthand,laughingatthemall,turningthe
affair into a good story to be served up to future guests; they were great, at
Eaglewood,oncollectinggoodstoriesforsocialpurposes.Butshehadbeen
putoffherbalancebytheexpressionofLewisTarrant'sface,theintonationof
hisvoice.Evidentlyhetoosupposedshewaslyingtoshield
herbrother,andlikethegentlemanhewashewasgoingtoshieldher;andthe
businesswasnotintheleasttohisliking.("Well,heknowswhatwe'relike;
whydoeshekeeponcominghere?"shethought,almostputtingthequestion
aloud to him.) She swung away from both men with one of her quick
rebelliousmovements.
"Andnow,forgoodness'sake,Father,don'tgoonkeepingeverybodywaiting
forlunch. Their interestinthisaffairis purely oneofpoliteness. They don't
careahangwhohadthecaroutlastnight,andtheyknowit'snotthefirsttime
she'sbrokendown,especiallywhenI'vebeendrivingher."
"No--astothat,sir,Halo'sright,youknow,"Tarrantcorroboratedlaughingly,
and at the same moment Mrs. Spear appeared, her face brightening as she
caught the echo of the laugh. But her exhilaration did not last. "I do think,
Halo,weoughttohaveinvitedtheTracysherelongago,"shebegan,thelines
formingagainabouthereyesandmouth.
"The Tracys--the Tracys--who on earth do you mean by the Tracys?" Mr.
Spear broke in, glad of a new vent for his irritation. "Not Tom Lorburn's
caretakersattheWillows,Itakeit?"
"Why, you know, Harold, the Tracys really are related to Tom Lorburn and
me, and I'm afraid we've been dreadfully distant to them, never going near
themexcepttoseewhetherthey'dlookedaftertheWillowsproperly--andnow
HalosaystheyhaveayoungcousinfromtheWeststayingthere--apainter,no,
Imeanapoet,who'sreallyagenius.AndsoIthought..."
Mrs.Spear'sconfusedexplanationwasinterruptedbytheconvulsivesplutter
andangrypauseofamotoroutsideofthehouse.Sofamiliarwerethesounds
toallpresentthatHéloïsemerelysaidwithashrug:"WhatdidItellyou?"and
turnedtowardthediningroomdoor,inthehopethatthesightoffoodwould
cutshorttheinvestigationofhernocturnaltrip.
"Well,Jacob?"Mr.Spearexclaimed,pausinghalfwayacrossthehall;andhis
daughter,turning,metthereproachfulgazeofthefamilyfactotum,whostood
inthedoorwaymoppingthemoisturefromhisperpetuallypuzzledwrinkles.
"Well, I've got her," Jacob said. He glanced about him somewhat
apprehensively,andthen,fixinghiseyesagainonHéloïse:"Ifoundafellow
sittinginher.Hesaidhe'dlosthiswayandgonetosleep.Hewasgoingtocut
andrun,butItoldhimhe'dhavetocomeherewithmeandtellyoufolkswhat
hewasdoinginthecaranyhow."
Jacobfell back,and overhisshoulder Héloïsecaught sightofa slimboyish
figurewithwhitefaceandrumpledhair,anddeepeyesstillbewilderedwith
sleep.
"IsthisEaglewood?"VanceWestonaskedoftheassembledcompany;thenhe
sawMissSpearbehindtheothers,andhispallorturnedtocrimson.
Halocameforward."Vance--howwonderful.MotherwasjustaskingwhyI
hadn'tbroughtyoubacktolunch;andhereyouare!"
Helookedatherasifonlyhalfunderstanding."Icouldn'tfindmywayhome,
soIcamebackuptheroad,andwhenIsawthecarwasstillthereIgotintoit
towaituntilsomebodycamealong--andIguessImusthavefallenasleep."
"Well,that'sallright;it'sevenprovidential.You'vesavedJacobthetroubleof
going all the way down the hill to get you. Mother, Father, this is Vance
Weston, who's staying at Paul's Landing with the Tracys. Mother, can't we
havesomethingtoeat?You'venoideahowinhumanlyhungrysunrisesmake
people--don'tthey,Vance?Oh,andthis is Mr. Frenside, whomI'vetoldyou
about:whowritesforTheHour.AndthisisMr.LewisTarrant--andhere'smy
brother Lorburn. I suppose you're our cousin, too, aren't you, Vance? Lorry,
thisisournewcousin,VanceWeston."
AssheperformedthisrapidceremonyHalo'seyesdweltamomentlongeron
LewisTarrant'sfacethanontheothers.Ah,hewastakinghisdosenow-
-anastybrew!"Shielding"heragain;muchshecaredaboutbeingshielded!He
wouldknownowthatshereallyhadbeenoutinthecarinthenight,thatthis
unknownboy hadbeen withher, thatshe didn'tcareafigwho knewit, and
thattheescapadehadtakenplaceattheverymomentwhenhe,Lewis
Tarrant,hadcometoEaglewoodfortheweekend,onherexpresspromisethat
shewouldtellhimdefinitely,beforetheendofhisvisit,ifshewere
goingtomarryhimornot....
LorrySpear was the firsttobreak the silence whichhadfollowed on young
Weston'sentrance."Iseethatournewcousinhasdoneusthedoubtfulservice
of preventing that rotten old car from being stolen. At least we might have
collectedtheinsuranceonher....Gladtoseeyouallthesame,Weston;don't
bearyoutheleastgrudge."Heheldouthishandtotheincreasinglybewildered
Vance.
"How absurd, Lorry . . . as if anybody had really thought . . ." Mrs. Spear
brokein,thecloudliftingfromherbrowasshesawthathersonwas
helping to carry the thing off (he didn't always; but when he did he was
masterly).
"Andallthistime,mydearVance,"Mrs.Spearcontinuedturningherbeautiful
eyesonherguest,"youmustbewonderingwhatwe'realltalkingabout,and
whylunchissolate.Butit'sprovidential,asHalosays;forweshouldn'thave
hadthepleasureofhavingyouwithusifthatstupidoldmotorhadn'tbroken
down.Now comeinto thediningroom,mydear boy, thisway.I'mgoingto
putyounexttoMr.Frenside,ourgreatcritic,whomyouknowbyreputation--
ofcourseyoureadTheHour?George,thisisHalo'sfriend,theyoungnovelist
...no,poet...poet,isn'tit,Vance?Youhappybeing!"Mrs.Spearlaidher
urgenthandonhisshoulderanddrewhimtowardtheluncheontable.
XI
It was so still in the dim book-lined room that had the late Miss Lorburn
reappeared upon the scene she might have mistaken for a kindred ghost the
youngmaninpossessionofherlibrary.
Vance,for thelast fewdays,had beengoing overthebooks atthe Willows,
wipingthemwithasofttowelandcarefullyputtingoneafteranotherbackin
its proper place. Halo Spear, in one of her spasmodic bursts of energy, had
swoopeddownfromEaglewoodthefirstmorningtoshowhimhowtodoit;
for in the reverent and orderly treatment of books (handling them, Mrs.
Westonmighthaveputit,asgingerlyasiftheywere"thebestchina"!)Vance
wastotallyuntaught.MissSpear,withthoseswiftandconfidenthandsofhers,
hadgivenhimoneofherhurrieddemonstrations,accompaniedbyarunning
commentary of explanation. "Don't shake the books as if they were carpets,
Vance;they'renot.Atleastthey'reonlymagiccarpets,someofthem,tocarry
onetotheothersideofthemoon.Buttheywon'tstandbangingandbeating.
You see,bookshave souls,likepeople: thatis,like afewpeople. ... No, I
wouldn'tasktheTracystohelp;theydon'tknowmuchaboutbooks.YouandI
willmanageitbyourselves.Look:wipetheedgesgently,likethis,andthen
flutterthepageseversolightly--asifyouwereabeetryingtoshakeopena
flower--justtogetthedustout....Ah,buthowlovelythisis!Listen:
"'Ah,whatavailsthesceptredrace,
Andwhattheformdivine?
Whateveryvirtue,everygrace?
RoseAylmer,allwerethine...'"
And then, in the midst of her dusting and reading (the former frequently
interrupted by the latter), she had glanced abruptly at her wristwatch,
exclaiming:"Oh,Lord,there'sLewiswaiting--I'dforgotten!"andhaddashed
outofthehouse,cryingbackadvice,instructionsandadieux.
Vancescarcelynoticedherdeparture.Itwasexciting--almosttooexciting--to
haveherthere;buthedidnotwantmoreexcitementjustthen.Whathewanted
was in some way to be kept outside of time and space till his fury of
intellectualhungerwas,notindeedsated,butatleastcalmed.Themeresense
ofallthosebooksabouthim,silentwitnessesofanunknownandunsuspected
past, was almost more agitating than he could bear. From every side their
influencesstreamedtowardhim,drawinghimthiswayandthatasifhehad
beeninthecentreofamagneticcircle.Tocontinuetheworkhewasthereto
dosoonbecamemanifestlyimpossible.Why,evenMissSpearhadbrokenoff
every few minutes to read and admire, often dropping the book in her hand
while she darted on to another, oblivious, in her hummingbird greed, of the
principlesofordershewasinculcating.Andyettoherthesevolumes,orthe
greater number of them, were old friends. She must long since have
surmounted the shock of surprises with which Vance was tingling; while to
himnearlyallthebookswerenewandunknown,andtherestborenamesjust
familiar enough to sharpen his hunger. How could he attempt to remember
fromwhichshelfhehadtakenonebookortheother,onceithadopenedits
goldenvistastohim?
Hedidnottryforlong.Healreadyhadafairlydefinitesenseofvalues,and
couldnotdeludehimselfwiththeideathatdustingadeadwoman'sbookswas,
for him or anybody else, a more vital and necessary act than reading them.
Thiswashischance,andhewasgoingtotakeit.
Ifonlyhehadknownbetterhowto!Thepressureofthisweightofwisdomon
his ignorance was suffocating: he felt like a girl Miss Spear had told him
about,thegirl who was so greedy for gold that she betrayed Rome, and the
fellows she betrayed it to despised her so that they crushed her under their
goldenshields.ThesebookswerecrushingVancelikethat.Ifonlythere
weresomewayofclimbingtheslipperytrunkoftheTreewhichdangledits
fruitsofarabovehim!
HeturnedtothecornerfromwhichMissSpearhadtakenthebooks,andhis
hand lit on a shabby volume: Specimens of English Dramatic Poets
contemporarywithShakespeare.HesettledhimselfinMissLorburn'sGothic
armchairandread:
"Isthisthefacethatlaunchedathousandships
AndburntthetoplesstowersofIlium?"
MyGod!Whowroteit?Whocouldhave?Notanyofthebigfellowsheknew
about...thiswasanothernote:heknewitinstinctively.Andtheman'sname?
Marlowe...andhe'dlived,why,eversolongago,twoorthreehundredyears
before this old house of Miss Lorburn's was built, or the funny old mouldy
Half Hours book published--and the English language, in this Marlowe's
hands,wasalreadyaflowerandaflame....Vancerambledonfromgloryto
glory, slowly, amazedly, and then, out of sheer gluttony, pushed the book
under his chair, like a dog hiding a bone, and wandered back to the magic
shelvesformore.
"Whenshemoves,yousee
Likewaterfromacrystaloverflowed,
Freshbeautytrembleoutofher,andlave
Herfairsidestotheground..."
Vancedroppedthelittlevolume,andpressinghishandsagainsthiseyesletthe
frail music filter through him. This poetry had another quality of newness
quiteitsown--somethingelusiveastheshybeautyofa coldspringevening.
Beddoes...thatwasthename.Anotherunknown!Washeacontemporaryof
those others, Marlowe and Ford, who lived so long before the Willows was
built,almostbeforetheHudsonRiverhadaname?Orwashenot,ratherwith
anexquisitenewnote,tryingtolurebacktheearliermusic?Howcouldaboy
fromEuphoriahopetofindhiswaythroughthisboundlessforestofEnglish
poetry,calledhitherandthitherbyallthesewild-wingedbirdspouringdown
theirmusiconhim?
As he stood groping and gazing, in the litter and confusion of the ravaged
shelves,hiseyesfellonatitlewhichseemedtoholdouthelp.HalfHourswith
theBestAuthors--stoutishvolumesinwornblackcloth,withqueerpinnacled
giltlettering.Well,atleasttheywouldtellhimwhoweresupposedtobethe
best authors when the book was written--put him wise on that, anyhow. He
reachedforavolume,andsettledhimselfdownagain.
Thebookwasnot,asVancehadexpected,aseriesof"halfhour"essaysonthe
best authors. Charles Knight (that was the man's name) had simply ranged
through a library like Miss Lorburn's, about eighty years ago, gathered this
bloom and that, and bound them together with the fewest words. Vance,
accustomedtoshort-cutstoculture,hadexpectedanearlyversionofthe"five-
foot shelf"; he found, instead, the leisurely selections of an anthologist to
whomithadobviouslynotoccurredthathemighthavereaderstoohurriedto
dwellonthemorereconditebeautiesofEnglishliterature.Thechoiceofthe
poetrydidnotgreatlyinterestVance,afterLamb'sSpecimensandtheBeddoes
volume; but as his eye travelled on he found himself receiving for the first
time--exceptwhenhehadfirstreadhisBibleasliterature--themightyshockof
Englishprose.
Forthemomentitaffectedhimalmostmorepowerfullythanthepoetry,sucha
senseitgaveofendlesslysubtleintricaciesofrhythmandmovement,sucha
greattidalpressureashecouldfeelonly,andnotdefine."Methinks Iseein
mymind anoble andpuissantnation rousingherself likeastrong manafter
sleep,andshakingherinvinciblelocks;methinksIseeherasaneaglenursing
hermightyyouth,andkindlingherundazzledeyesatthefullmid-daybeam;
purgingandunsealingherlongabusedsightatthefountainitselfofheavenly
radiance....""Thelightoftheworldintheturningofthecreationwasspread
abroad like a curtain, and dwelt nowhere, but filled the expansum with a
disseminationgreatastheunfoldingsoftheair'sloosergarment,orthewilder
fringesofthefire,withoutknots,ororder,orcombination;butGodgathered
thebeamsinhishand,andunitedthemintoaglobeoffire,andallthelightof
theworldbecamethebodyofthesun."
What a fellow could say, if he had the chance, and the habit of words and
sentenceslikethat!
Vanceshutthevolumeandsatgazingaheadofhim.Thebloodwasbeatingin
his temples. The walls of dark musty books seemed to sway and dissolve,
lettinghimintothatnewworldoftheirs--aworldofwhichhemustsomehow
acquirethefreedom."Imustfindout--Imustfindout."Herepeatedthewords
chantingly,unmeaningly,asiftheyhadbeenanincantation.Thenslowlyhis
mindbegantoclear,tobecomeagainableto
followitsownmovements.Whatheneeded,nodoubt,toenterthatworld,was
education--theverythinghethoughthealreadyhad!
Itwasnotonlythebooksintowhichhehadbeendippingthattoldhimofhis
need. Every word, every allusion caught at the Eaglewood lunch table had
openednewvistasofconjecture.Ofcourseeachhumanagglomeration,down
to the smallest village, had its local idioms, its own range of allusions, its
stockofjokesandformsofirony.AttheTracys',forinstance,youheardthe
Paul's Landing vernacular, as you heard that of Euphoria at Vance's family
table;butallthatwasdifferent.Vancehadknowninstantlythatthelanguage,
theintonations,theallusionsofEaglewooddidnotbelongpeculiarlytoPaul's
Landing, were indeed hardly concerned with it, but embraced, though so
lightlyflitting,greatareasextendingnotonly to New Yorkand beyond, but
backward through this mysterious past which was so much newer to Vance
than any present. These easy affable people could talk--did talk--about
everything! Everything, that is, but the exclusively local matters which had
formedthestaple oftheonlyconversationVancehadever heard.What they
talkedofwassimplyalltherest;andhecouldseethattheydiditwithoutthe
least intention of showing-off, the least consciousness that their scope was
widerthanotherpeople's--diditnaturally,carelessly,justashismothertalked
about electric cookers, his father about local real estate, Mrs. Tracy about
LauraLou'sschoolpicnicsandUpton'sjobatthenursery.Theinferencewas,
not that the Spears and their friends were an isolated group, parading their
superior attainments before each other, but that they belonged to a class, a
society,atypeofpeople,whonaturallybreathedthislargerair,possessedthis
privilegeofmovingfreelybackwardandforwardintimeandspace,andwere
sousedtoitallthattheytookthesamefacultyforgrantedinothers--evenina
boylikeVanceWeston.
Well,therewasnoreasonwhyaboylikeVanceWestonshouldn't,someday
orother,acquirealikefaculty.Hehadbeenbroughtupinthecreedthatthere
wasnothingafellowfromEuphoria,thecradleofalltheAdvantages,couldn't
attainto.Only--how?Itseemedtohimthatthegulfwasuntraversable.Ifonly
hecouldhavebeenleftaloneinthatlibrary,leftthereforhalfayear,perhaps..
..Butevenso,hefeltthatheneededsomekindoftuitiontopreparehimfor
thelibrary.ThePastwastoobig,toocomplicated,tooaloof,tosurrenderits
secretssolightly.
Collegeagain?Collegemeanttohimsportsandmoresports,secretsocieties,
class scraps and fraternity rushing, with restricted intervals of mechanical
cramming,andtheglibunmeaningrecitalofformulas--his
coursesprovidedaformulaforeverything!Butallthathadnothingtodowith
allthis....
Besides,thinkingaboutcollegewasawasteoftime.Evenhadhebeenwilling
to submit again to the same routine, he hadn't the means to re- educate
himself,and he couldnotask his fathertopayhis expenses twiceover. Mr.
Weston,Vanceknew,regardedhimasaninvestmentwhich ought alreadyto
bebringinginsomething.Aftertheboy'sillnesshisfatherhadrecognizedthe
necessity of his taking a holiday; and being a man who always did things
handsomelywhen hisdoingso wasvisibleto others,he had agreed,besides
paying the trip to New York and back, and Vance's board at the Tracys', to
allowhimahundreddollarsamonthforfourmonths.Vancehadreceivedhalf
thesumbeforestarting,withawarningtobecarefulandnotmakeafoolof
himself;andhisfather'sgesture,whichbecamegenerallyknownonMapledale
Avenue,wasthoughtveryliberal,andworthyofLorinWeston.
But Vance, at the same time, was given to understand that as soon as his
summer'srestwasoverhewasto"makegood."Hisfather,havingreluctantly
comeroundtotheideaofhisgoingintojournalisminsteadofrealestate,had
obtainedthe promise ofajob for himontheFree Speaker,andwas already
swaggeringatclubmeetingsaboutthenuisanceofhavingaliteraryfellowin
thefamily. "Problemmostof youfellowsaren'tupagainst, Iguess?Fact is,
Mrs.Westonhasaway-backculturecomplexinherfamily,andit'samicrobe
you can't seem to eradicate." This was all very well--and nobody liked
swaggeringbetterthanthesilentLorinWeston;butVanceknewthatheliked
tohavehisswaggerjustifiedwiththeleastpossibledelay.
The only hope lay in returning as often as he could to this silent room, and
tryingtohackawaythroughthedensejungleofthepast.Buthewasnotsure
it would be possible. He was aware that Mrs. Tracy, though she made no
comment,wonderedathismeetingswithMissSpearattheWillows,andatthe
permissiongivenhimtorangeamongthebooks.Hehadspenttwowholedays
theresincehislunchatEaglewood,andonthisseconddaynoonehadcome
downfromthe"bighouse,"asMrs.Tracycalledit,tolethimin,andhehad
beenobligedtogo backto Paul'sLandingandaskher forthe keys."Idon't
knowasIoughtto,"Mrs.Tracyhadsaidasshehandedthemover;andthen:
"Oh,well,Isupposeit'sallrightiftheysayso."ShereferredtotheSpearsas
"they,"withacertaintartness,sinceshehadlearnedofVance'shavinglunched
atEaglewood."Well,Inever!Mebbesometimethey'llrememberthatUpton
andLauraLouarerelatedto
themtoo."Vancefeltthatinaskingforthekeyshehadvaguelyoffendedher,
andhewassorry;buthecouldnotgiveupthebooks.
New York had completely vanished from his thoughts. He had the sense to
understandthat,toaboylikehimself,NewYorkcouldoffer no opportunity
comparable to this. He must learn something first--then try his luck there.
Whenhehadfoundhimself,attheEaglewoodlunchtable,seatednexttothe
literarycriticwhosename,inhisconfusion,hehadnotcaught,hehadactedat
onceonthedeepinstinctwhichalwaysmadehimseizeonwhatwasmeantfor
hisownnourishment,inhowever newand unfamiliarsurroundings. Here,at
least, he said to himself, was an editor--a journalist! He had no idea if The
Hourwereadaily(asitsnameseemedtoimply),orsomekindofhighbrow
review(ashefeared);butwhateveritwas,itmightgivehimhischance--and
here he was sitting next to the very man who had the power to open its
columnstohim.
Buthefounditlesseasythanhehadimagined.Thegreatman(whomtheyall
addressedsimplyas"George"or"Frenny")wasevidentlytryingtobefriendly,
inhisdrysardonicway;buthepaidnoheedtoMrs.Spear'sallusionsto"our
youngpoet,"andhisremarkstoVanceweremerelyperfunctoryquestionsas
tohislifeintheWest,andhispresentsojournattheTracys'.Onceindeedhe
asked,blinkingabsentlyattheboythroughhisglasses:"Andwhat'sthenext
movetobe?"butonVance'sanswering:"Iwanttogetontoanewspaper,"his
interestseemedtoflag."Oh,ofcourse,"hemerelysaid,aswhoshouldimply;
"What'stheuseofexpectinganythingdifferentinaworldofsameness?"and
the blood which had rushed to Vance's face ebbed back to his heart. A few
hoursearlier,ashetalkedofhispoetrywithHaloSpearbythemountainpool,
everything had seemed possible; now he thought bitterly: "When it comes
downtohardpangirlsdon'tknowanythinganyhow."Anditgavehimagrim
satisfactiontoclasshismountainnymphinthecommoncategory.
But when she reminded him of his promise to help her with the books his
feeling veered to adoration, and her appearance at the Willows, vivid and
inspiring,instantlyliftedhimtothebrowofThundertop."Shecarriesthatpool
everywherewithher,"hethought,andwasseizedbythedesiretoembodythe
fancyinanew poem;and whenshe,broke offinherdustingandsortingto
say: "I gave your poetry to George Frenside to read last night," he was too
muchagitatedtothankher,ortoputaquestion.Amomentlater,sheseemed
toforgetwhatshehadsaid,carriedawaybyadipintoAndrewMarvell(What-
-hedidn'tknow"TheCoyMistress"?Oh,buthemustjustlistentothis!);and
finally,afterwhirlinghimonfromonebooktoanotherforanhourorso,she
vanishedassuddenlyasshehad
cometojointhemysterious"Lewis,"thefellowshewasgoingtomarry,Vance
supposed.
Shecamebackthenextday,andthenext.Onthefourthshepromisedtoleave
herkeyswithhimandtomeethimagainattheWillowsthenextmorning;but
she carried the keys off with her, and he had to get the hired man, who
scrutinizedhimsulkily,tolockup.Andthefifthdaytherehadbeennosignof
her...andnowtwilightwouldsoonbefalling,anditwastimetogo.
Show his poetry to George Frenside (if that was the man's name)? Much
chancehe'deverhearofthatagain...likelyasnotshe'dneverevendoneit;
justmeantto,andforgotten.Forifshehad,wouldn'tshehavehadsomething
toreport--evenifunfavourable?Itwasn'tlikelyshe'dstickattellinghimafew
morehometruths,afterthestiffdoseshe'dalreadyadministered!Perhapson
secondthoughtsshe'ddecidedthestuffwasn'tworthshowing.Andyet,hadn't
shetoldhiminsomanywordsthatshehadshownit?No,whatshehadsaid,
literally, was: "I gave Frenside your poetry to read." Well, the great critic
probablyhadn'ttakenadvantageofhisopportunity--perhapsshe'dputhimoff
inadvancewithhercomments."Urge"notanoun!Andthatnonsenseabout
"dawn" and "lorn" not being good rhymes! God, to see a tone-deaf woman
layingdownthelaw--andallEaglewoodkowtowing!Well,hehadtolaughat
thethoughtofthosestuffedoraclessittingupthereandtellingeachotherwhat
waswhat....Whatthehell'dhecarefortheiropinion,anyhow--ofhispoetry,
orofhimself?Lotofself-opiniatedamateurs...hehadtolaugh....Well,
he'dgotoNewYorkthenextday,andlookroundonhisown,andseewhat
theprofessionalsthoughtabouthim....Afterall,hecoulddescribehimselfas
beingonthestaffoftheFreeSpeaker.
Suddenlyashadowcutoffthewesternsunlightslantingonhisbook,andhe
saw one of the young men from Eaglewood leaning on the window and
looking in at him--not the fair dissatisfied-looking one they called "Lewis,"
buttheother:Halo'sbrotherLorburn.LorburnSpearputhishandonthesill,
said"Hullo--stillatit?"andvaultedintotheroom.Inthemiddleofthefloor
hepaused,hishandsinhispockets,andgazedaboutwithanamusedsmileand
ironically lifted brows. He was slim and dark, like Halo, with the same
carefullydrawnfeaturesashisfather,butmoreheightandlessmajestythan
Mr.Spear.Aneasyaccessiblesortoffellow;afellowVancefelthecouldhave
takenalikingtoifonly--ifwhat?Perhapsitwasthathiseyesweretooclose
together.GrandmaScrimseralwaysusedtosay:"Don'tyouevertrustaman
whoseeyesarenearenoughtobealwayswhisperingtoeachother."Andthen
shewentandtrustedeverybody--evenGrandpa!
Factwas,Grandmalikedaxiomsthewayyoulikeolives;itneveroccurredto
hertheyweremeantforanythingbuttorollunderyourtongue....
"Well," said Lorry Spear pleasantly, "this is luck, finding you still in the
mausoleum.I supposeHaloset youthejob andthenchucked you?Thought
so.Shepromisedtopickmeupbyandby,butwillshe?Haveyoumadeany
amusing finds? Cigarette? No?" He drew out his own, lit one, and dropped
intothechairnearestVance's."Thereoughttobethingshere,youknow,"he
wentonsendinghiseyessharplyabouthimwhilehisattentionstillseemedto
becentredonVance.
"Things?"Vanceechoedexcitedly:"Ishouldsayso!Seehere--doyouknow
this?"HepushedacrossthetablethevolumeofHalfHours,openatBeddoes.
Lorry Spear stared, took the book up, glanced at the title page and threw it
down. "Well--I don't believe there'd be any bids for that unless it took the
ragpicker'sfancy."
"Theragpicker--?"
Theyoungmenstaredateachother,andLorrylaughed.
"Oh, I see: you're a reader. Halo told me. It's a conceivable branch of the
business,ofcourse."
"Business--?"
"Businessofbook-collecting.That'swhatbooksarefor,isn'tit?Evenpeople
who read 'em have to collect them. But personally I've never thought they
weremeanttoberead.Youcangetallthetalkyouwant--andtoomuch--from
livepeople;Inevercouldseethepointofdragginginthedead.Thebeautyof
booksistheirmakeup:likeawoman's.What'sawomanwithoutclothesand
paint?Nexttonothing,believeme,afteryou'vewornoffthefirstsurprise....
Andabookwithouttherightpaper,therighttype,therightbinding,theright
date on the title page; well, it's a blank to me, that's all." He got up again,
cigaretteinhand,andloungedacrosstheroom."Don'tsupposethere'smuch
here,anyhow.I'vealwaysmeanttotakealook,andneverhadtime....There
mightbesomeAmericana--nevercantell.Thebestthingabouttheseancestors
was that they never threw anything away. Didn't value things; didn't know
about them; but just hung on to them. I shouldn't wonder--Oh, see here!
Hullo!" He stretched his long arm toward an upper shelf, reached down a
volume,andstoodabsorbed.
Vance watched him curiously. He had never seen anyone so easy, self-
assured,andyetcarelessasthisbrotherofMissSpear's."Thoughtyou
didn't care about reading," he remarked at length, amused at his visitor's
absorption. Young Spear gave a start, and laid the book down. "Oh, I was
turningoutparadoxes--theymaddenmyfamily,butamuseme.Troubleabout
readingatEaglewoodisthatwhateveryougetholdofeverybody'sbeenthere
beforeyou.Nodiscoveriestobemade.Butyoudon'tread,doyou--youwrite?
You'llfindnobodycandoboth.What'syourline?Poetry?"
Vancewastremblingwithexcitement,ashealwaysdidwhenanyonetouched
onhisvocation.Buthisrecentexperienceshadcausedasortofprotectiveskin
togrowoverhissecretsensibilities--orwasitthatreallytheeyesofthisgood-
lookingyoungmanweretooclosetogether?Vancecouldimaginehavingall
kinds of a good time with him, but not talking to him of anything that lay
underthatskin."Oh,Iguessthere'llbetimeformetochoosealinelater,"he
said."I'minthereadingstagestill.Andthisoldhouseinterestsme.WhereI
come from everything's bran' new--houses and books and everything. We
throw'emoutwhentheygetshabby.AndIlikelookingatallthesethingsthat
folkshavekeptrightalong--hungonto,asyousay."
Lorburn Spear looked at him with interest, with sympathy even, Vance
thought.Forasecondhissmilehadthefugitiveradianceofhissister's."Why,
yes,Iseeyourpoint:whatyoumightcallthenoveltyofpermanence.Andthis
placecertainlyhascharacter,thougholdTomLorburnistoostupidtoseeit.
AndourCousinElinorhadcharactertoo!Goodhead,eh?"Heglancedupat
theportrait,stillwiththatoddairofkeepingholdofVancewhilehelooked
away from him. "You know she did a good deal to the house when she
inheritedit.Thisroomexpressesonesideofher;hermaturity,heracceptance.
Butwhenshedidthedrawingroomsshewasfrivolous,shestilldreamedof
dancing--she'dreadByrononthewaltz,poorgirl!Whatanappetizeritmust
havebeentothosewomentohavesomanythingsforbidden!Seentherestof
therooms?No?Oh,butthey'reworthit.Comealongbeforeitgetstoodark."
Gaily,withhislongfreestep,heledthewayacrossthepatternedparquet,and
Vancefollowed,captivated by the imageofayoung Miss Lorburn who still
dreamed of dancing, and to whom so many things were sweet because
forbidden."Yetsheendedinherlibrary...."hethought.
LorrySpearwasastimulatingguide.Hisquicktoucheswokethedumbrooms
to life, lit the dusky wax candles in chandeliers and wall brackets, drew a
Weberwaltzfromtheslumberingpiano,peopledthefloorwithgailycircling
couples,evenmadeVanceseethedottedmuslinsandbillowytarlatanslooped
withcamelliasoftheyoungwomenwiththeirringletsand
sandalled feet. He found the cleverest words, made it all visible and almost
tangible, knew even what flowers there would have been in the ornate
porcelain vases: mignonette and pinks, with heavy pink roses, he decided:
"Yes--Ioughttohave beenatheatricaldecorator;would be,ifonlytheboss
wouldputupthecash.Buttodothatthey'dhavetosellEaglewood--ormarry
Halotoamillionaire,"headdedwithanimpatientlaugh.
UpstairshetookVanceoverthefunnybedrooms,sobigandhigh-ceilinged,
withbedsofmahoganyorrosewood,andthelace-loopedtoilettables(likethe
ladies'ball-dresses)withgiltmirrorframespeepingthroughthefestoons,and
big marble-topped washstands that carried carafes and goblets of cut glass,
porcelainbasinsandewerswithflowergarlands.Inoneofthedressingrooms
(Miss Lorburn's) there was a specially ornate toilet set, with a ewer in the
shape of a swan with curving throat and flattened wings, and a basin like a
nest of rushes. "Poor Elinor--I supposed she dreamed of a Lohengrin before
theletter,andhopedtofindababyinthebulrushes,"Lorrycommented;and
Vance, understanding the allusions, felt a pang of sympathy for the lonely
woman.Attheendofthepassage,inoneofthefreakishtowers,wasacircular
roomwithbluebrocadecurtainsandtuftedfurniture,thewallshungwithlarge
coloured lithographs of peasant girls dancing to tambourines, and young
fellows in breeches and velvet jackets who drove oxcarts laden with ripe
grapes."TheItalyofherday,"Lorrysmiled."Shemusthavedonethisboudoir
in the Lohengrin stage. And she ended in spectacles, cold and immaculate,
reading Coleridge all alone. Brr!" He broke off, and turned to the window.
"Hullo!Isn'tthatHalo?"
The hoarse bark of the Eaglewood motor sounded at the gate. "Come along
down," Lorry continued. "You'd better take advantage of the lift home.
Besides,it'stoodarktodomuchmorehere."
They started down the stairs, but in the hall Vance hesitated. "I've left the
bookspiledupanyhow.GuessI'dbettergobackandputthemontheshelves."
Herealizedsuddenlythatforthelasttwodayshehaddoneneitherdustingnor
sorting,andwonderedwhatMissSpearwouldsayifshesawthehavochehad
created.
"Notonyourlife!"Lorryenjoinedhim."Youcouldhardlyseeayardbefore
your nose in the library by this time, and lighting up is strictly forbidden.
Might set the old place on fire. If it was mine I'd do it, and collect the
insurance; but old Tom don't need to, curse him." He stopped short, and
clappedhishandonhiswaistcoatpocket."Imusthaveleftmycigarettecase
inthere.Yes,Iremember.Youwaithere--"
He spun down the polished floor of the drawing-rooms and disappeared.
Vance waited impatiently. Although the June sky outside was still full of
daylightitwasdarkalreadyinthehallwithitssombrepanellingand heavy
oakstairs.NowandthenheheardthecroakoftheEaglewoodmotorandhe
wondered how much longer Miss Spear would deign to wait. Between the
motor calls the silence was oppressive. What could young Spear have done
withhiscigarettecase?OnceVancethoughtheheardthebangingofawindow
inthedistance.Coulditbethathehadforgottentoclosethewindowsinthe
library? But he was sure he had not; and the sound took on the ghostly
resonanceofunexplainednoises.PerhapsthatsillyLauraLouwasrighttobe
scared--as dusk fell it became easier to believe that the Willows might be
haunted. Vance started back across the echoing parquet to the library; but
halfwayhemetLorryreturning.
"Couldn'tfindthedamnthing,"hegrumbled."Gotthekeys,eh?"Vancesaid
hehad,andtheymovedtowardthedoor.OnthethresholdLorrypaused,and
turnedtohimagainwithHalo'ssmile."Youhaven'tgottendollarsyoudon't
knowwhattodowith?LikeafoolIletLewisandFrensidekeepmeuphalf
the night playing poker. . . . Well, that's white of you. Thanks. Settle next
week. And don't mention it to Halo, will you? The old people are down on
poker...andoneverythingelseIwanttodo."Vanceturnedthekeyinthe
frontdoor,andthetwowalkedthroughthelonggrasstothegate.
Vancefeltgrown-upandimportant.ItputhimathiseasewithLorry'ssisterto
haveasecretbetweenmentokeepfromher.
BOOKIII
XII
Vanceturnedoverslowly,openedhiseyes,pushedbackhisrumpledhair,and
didnotatfirstmakeoutwherehewas.
Hethoughtthebedwasadoubleone,blackwalnutwithcarvedornamentsand
apinkmosquitonet,onthewallfacinghimalargephotographofafatman
withaKnightsofPythiasbadgeandastiffcollar,andagramophoneshrieking
outtheVolgaBoatSongsomewherebelow.
Thenthevision mergedinto the more familiar one of his neat littleroomat
Euphoria,ofcollegephotographsandtrophiesonthewalls,andthesoundof
earlysplashinginthewhite-tiledbathroomattheendofthepassage.Butthis
picture also failed to adapt itself to his clearing vision, and gradually he
thought:"Why,I'mbackatPaul'sLanding,"andtheslopingceiling,theflies
banging against the pane, the glimpse, outside, of a patch of currant bushes
backed by sultry blue woods, came to him with mingled reassurance and
alarm."Whatthehell--"hethought.
Oh--heknewnow.ThatbaseballgameoverinNewJerseyhadbeenUpton's
idea.ItwasaSaturday,thedayafterLorrySpear'svisittotheWillows.When
Vance got back to the Tracys' Upton had been waiting at the gate, his eyes
bursting out of his head. A fellow had given him tickets: Bunty Hayes, a
reporteronthe Paul's Landing paper. They could leave next morning by the
firsttrain,takealookroundinNewYork,andreachthefieldingoodtime.As
it was a Saturday there would be no difficulty in Upton's getting off. Vance
wasstruckbythechangeinhim:hispalefaceflushed,hisshyevasiveeyes
burning with excitement, his very way of moving and walking full of a
swaggerandself-importancewhichmadehimseemyearsolder.
Indoors,underMrs.Tracy'seyes,herelapsedatonceintotheshyshambling
boy with callous hands and boots covered with mud from the nursery. Mrs.
Tracydidnotopposetheplan,ordidsoonlyonthegroundofVance'shealth.
Theyhadalonghotdaybeforethem,andcouldnotgethometilltenoreleven
o'clockatnight.Hemustrememberthathewasjustgettingoverabadillness.
...ButVancerefusedtoberegardedasaninvalid,orevenasaconvalescent.
Hewaswellagain,hedeclared,andequaltoanything.Mrs.Tracycouldnot
but acknowledge how much he had gained during his fortnight at Paul's
Landing; and she finally gave a colourless assent to the expedition, on
conditionthatthetwoyouthsshouldtaketheearliestpossibletrainhome,and
keepoutofbadcompany--likethatBuntyHayes,sheadded.VanceandUpton
knewitwasnotherwaytoacquiescejoyfullyinanysuggestionwhichbroke
the routine of life, and after giving her the requisite assurances they began
theirpreparationslightheartedly.
Inthemorning,whentheycamedowntogulpthecoldcoffeeandsandwiches
she had laid out overnight, Vance was astonished to find Laura Lou in the
kitchen,inherrefurbishedyellowmuslin,withabecomingshade-hatonher
silvery-golden head. "You're going to take me, aren't you? I've warmed the
coffeeandboiledsomeeggsforyou,"shesaidtoVanceinherchildishway;
anditcausedhimapangwhenUpton,withabrother'sbrutality,remindedher
that she knew Bunty'd only given him two tickets. Her lower lip began to
tremble, her big helpless gray eyes to fill: Vance asked himself with inward
vexationwhether he ought to surrender his ticket to this tiresome child. But
beforehehadmadeuphismindUptoncutshorthissister'sentreaties."We're
goingwithalotoffellows:youknowMotherwouldn'thearofit.What'sall
the fuss about anyway? You've got that school picnic this afternoon. That's
whatyouweredoingupyourdressforyesterday.Don'tyoutakeanynoticeof
her,Vance."Sheranfromtheroom,crimsonandhalfcrying;andVance ate
hiseggswithcompunctionandrelief.Hedidn'twantanygirlonhishandsthe
firstdayhesawNewYork....
Theywerethereonlyacoupleofhours,andtherewasnousetryingtohuntup
aneditor.Themosthecouldachievewasadistantviewofthemostnotable
skyscrapers,agaspatFifthAvenueandadipintoBroadway,beforedashingto
the Pennsylvania Station for the Jersey train. From that moment they were
caughtupinthebaseballcrowd,acrowdofwhichhehadneverseenthelike.
Lifebecameaperspiringstruggle,astruggleforair,forafoothold,forasight
ofanythingbutthehotdrippingnapesandshoulderbladesthathemmedthem
in.Finally,somehow,theyhadreachedthefield,gotthroughthegates,found
theirplaces,discoveredBuntyHayesnearbywithacrowdofcongenialspirits,
andsettleddown tothejoysofspectatorship--orsuchglimpsesofitastheir
seatspermitted.ItwasacomforttoVancetoreflectthathehadbeenrightnot
togivehistickettoLauraLou;suchafrailcreaturecouldhardlyhavecome
aliveoutofthebattle.
TheoddestthingabouttheadventurewasthetransformationofUpton.Vance
wouldhaveimaginedUpton to be almost as unfitted as his sister for such a
testofnerveandmuscle;butthetimorousyouthofPaul'sLandingdeveloped,
with the donning of his Sunday clothes, an unforeseen audacity and
composure.ThefactthatVancedidn'tknowtheropesseemedtogiveUptona
senseofsuperiority;hesaidatintervals:"Comerightalong;sticktome;don't
let'emputitoveronyou,"inatoneofalmostpatronizingreassurance.And
when they joined Bunty Hayes, who was one of the free spirits of Paul's
Landing,VancewasstruckbytheintimacyofhisgreetingofUpton,andby
the"Hullo,Uppyboy"--"Say,thattheTracykid?"ofhis
companions. It was evident that Upton had already acquired the art of the
double life, and that the sheepish boy who went about his job at the Paul's
Landingnursery,andclumpedhomeforsupperwithmudandmanureonhis
boots,wasthepaleshadeoftherealUpton,adashingbladewithhisstrawhat
toofarbackonhispaleblondhair,andafraternityribbonsuddenlybuddingin
his buttonhole. "Wonder if Laura Lou knows?" Vance speculated, and
concludedthatshedid,andthatbrotherandsistercarriedontheirownlives
underMrs.Tracy'sunsuspectingeye.Hewasrathersorrynowthattheyhadn't
broughtLauraLouafterall;itwouldhavebeencurioustoseeherblossomout
likeherbrother.ButVancesoonforgotherintheexhilarationofwatchingthe
game. It was his first holiday for months; for the dull business of
convalescence had nothing to do with holiday-making. The noise and
excitement about him were contagious, and he cheered and yelled with the
rest, exchanged jokes with Bunty Hayes and his friends, and felt himself
saturated with the vigour of all the young and vigorous life about him. But
whenthegamewasover,andthecrowdbegantoscatter,thevitalityseemedto
ebboutofhimasthespectatorsebbedoutofthestadium.Itwasstillveryhot;
he had shouted himself hoarse; they had ahead of them the struggle at the
station,thestruggletogetintoatrain,thestiflingjourneyhome--andVance
begantofeelthathewasstillaconvalescent,withnoreservesofstrength.At
Euphoria, after a ball game, a dozen people would have been ready to give
him a lift home; but here he knew no one, Upton seemed to have no
acquaintancesbutBuntyHayesandhiscrowd,andPaul'sLanding,wherethey
allcamefrom,wasalongwayoff.
"See here--you look sick," said Bunty Hayes, touching him on the shoulder.
Vanceflushedup."Sick?I'mhotandthirsty,that'sall."Hewasn'tgoingto
haveanyofthatlotofUpton'streatinghimlikeasissy.
"Well,that'seasy.Comeroundwithusandhaveacool-off.We'reallgoingto
lookinattheCrans',closebyhere.Thisistheircar:jumpin,sonny."
Suddenly a motor stood there: Vance remembered piling into it with Upton,
BuntyHayes,andsomeotherfellows;theysatoneachother'slapsandonthe
hood.Agirlwholaughedverymuchandhadblown-backhair,dyedred,was
atthewheel.Whereweretheygoing?Whowasshe?Vancedidn'tcare.Asthe
motorbegantomovethewindstirredinhisownhair,drivingitbacklikethe
girl's,andlifeflowedthroughhimagain.Hebegantolaugh,andtriedtolight
a cigarette, but couldn't, because there wasn't enough elbow-room for a
sardine. The others laughed at his ineffectual attempt, and another girl,
perchedsomewherebehindhim,litacigaretteandleanedforwardtopushit
betweenhislips.TheyweregoingtotheCrans',andhe
foundout,hedidn'tknowhow,thatthesetwoweretheCrangirls--Cutywith
thedyedhairatthewheel,andtheyounger,'Smeraldatheycalledher,sitting
behindhimonthehoodbetweentwofellows,sothathisheadrestedagainst
herknees,andhefelt,throughhishair,thewarmfleshwhereherscantskirt
had slipped up. Once or twice, after they had left the state highway, the
overloaded motor nearly stuck in the deep ruts of the country road, and
everybodylaughedandcheeredandgavecollegeyellstillCutysomehowgot
themgoingagain.
Ah,howgoodthecooldrinkswerewhentheygottotheCrans'!Itwasatthe
back of the house, he remembered, under an arbour of scarlet runners that
looked out on a long narrow yard where clothes were drying. Some of the
clotheswerefunnylittlegarmentswithlaceedgingsandholesforribbon,and
there was a good deal of joking about that, and he remembered Cuty Cran
cryingout:"No,itain't!No,Idon't!Minearecrepp-de-sheen...
. Well, you come upstairs and see, then. . . ." But Cuty was not the one he
fancied;andanyhow,sinceFlosshe'dnever...andhehadyoungUptonto
lookafter....
As the shadows lengthened it grew quiet and almost cool under the arbour.
Thegirlshadthehousetothemselves,itappeared,Mr.andMrs.Cranhaving
beencalledawaythatmorningtothebedsideofagrandmotherwhohadbeen
suddenlytakensicksomewhereupstate."Realaccommodatingoftheoldlady
todevelopstomachtroublethedaybeforethegame,"Buntycommentedtothe
sisters,whorespondedwithshrieksofappreciation."Notthefirsttimeeither,"
he continued, winking at his admiring audience, and the sisters shrieked
afresh. The redhaired one was the current type of brazen minx--but the
younger,'Smeralda,withhersmoulderingeyesandherheavybeautyofchin
and throat--ah, the younger, for his undoing, reminded Vance of Floss
Delaney.Shehadthesamesultrypallor,thesamedarkpenthouseofhair....
Presently some other girls turned up, and there were more drinks and more
jokesaboutMr.andMrs.Cranbeingaway."Guesssomeofusfellowsought
tostayandactwatchdogforyoutwokiddies,"Buntyhumorouslysuggested.
"Ain't you scared nights, all alone in this great big house?" A general laugh
hailedthis,fortheCranhomesteadwasofthemostmodestproportions.Butit
stoodapartinthefields,withalittlewoodbehinditandthegirlshadtoadmit
thatitwaslonesomeatnight,particularlysincesomebody'dpoisonedthedog.
.. .Morelaughs, anda burlesqueconfessionfrom Buntythathe'dpoisoned
thedogforhisowndarkends,whichevokedstillshrillercriesofamusement..
..Buntyalwaysfoundsomethingwittyandunexpectedtosay....
Therewasayoungmoon,anditglintedthroughtheduskofthebeanleaves
andsilveredtheiredgesasdarknessfell.BuntyandCuty,andtheothergirls
andfellows,wanderedoffdownintothewood.Vancemeanttofollow,buthe
wasverytiredandsleepy,andalittlebefuddledwithalcohol,andhisbroken-
downrockingchairheldhimlikeacradle.
"You're dead beat aren't you?" he heard one of the girls say, and felt a soft
handpushbackhishair.Heopenedhiseyesand'Smeralda'swereburninginto
his.
"Comerightupstairs,andyoucanlaydownonMother'sbed,"shecontinued
persuasively.
Herememberedsaying:"Where'sUpton?"withalastclutchathisvanishing
senseofresponsibility,andsheanswered:"Oh,he'sdowninthewoodswith
Cutyand the others," andpulledVanceto his feet.Hefollowedher upstairs
throughthedarkeninghouse,andatthetopofthelandingsheslidaburning
palminhis....
As his vision readjusted itself and he found that he was in a narrow iron
bedstead,insteadofa wideone ofblackwalnut, witha portraitofMr.Cran
facing him, he began to wonder how he had got from the one couch to the
other, and how much time had elapsed in the transit. . . . But the effort of
wonderingwastoomuchforhim;hisachingheaddroppedback....
TherecollectionofUptonshotthroughhimrebukingly;buthesaidtohimself
thatUpton hadn't needed any advice,andwouldprobably have rejected it if
offered."Herantheshow--itwasallfixedupbeforehandbetweenhimandthe
Hayesfellow....Iwonderifhismotherknows?"ThethoughtofMrs.Tracy
was less easy to appease. He remembered her warning against Hayes, her
adjurationthattheyshouldavoidbadcompanyandcomehomebeforenight;
andhewouldhavegiventheworldtobeinhisownbedatEuphoria,withno
difficultiestodealwithbutsuchascouldbesettledbetweenhimselfandhis
family."IfIonlyknewthedayoftheweekitis!"hethought,feelingmoreand
more ashamed of the part he had played, and more and more scared of its
probable consequences. "She'll cry--and I shall hate that," he reflected
squeamishly.
At last he tumbled out of bed, soused his head in cold water, got into his
clothes,andshuffleddownstairs.Thehousewasquiet,thehourevidently
going toward sunset. In the back porch Mrs. Tracy sat shelling peas. There
wasnosignofemotiononherface,whichwassallowandstony.Shesimply
remarked,withoutmeetinghiseyes:"You'llfindsomefried liverleftouton
thetable,"andbentagaintohertask.
"Oh, I don't want anything--I'm not hungry," he stammered, longing to
questionher,tofindoutfromherallthatremainedobscureinhisownhistory,
toapologizeandtoexplain--ifanyexplanationshouldoccurtohim!Butshe
wouldnotlookup,andhefounditimpossibletopourouthisexcusestoher
benthead,withthetired-lookinghairdrawnthinlyovertheskin,likethelast
strandsofcottonroundoneofhismother'sspools."Funnywomenshouldget
tolook likethat," hethought withashiver ofrepulsion. Tocutthe situation
short,hewanderedintothediningroom,lookedatthefriedliverandsodden
potatoes,triedinvaintoguessofwhatmealtheywerethesurvival,andturned
awaywiththesamesenseofdisgustwithwhichthetopofMrs.Tracy'shead
hadinspiredhim.
Inthepassagehewavered,wonderingifheshouldgoupagaintohisroomor
wanderoutintheheat.IfMrs.Tracyhadnotbeenintheporchhispreference
wouldhavebeentoreturnthereandgotosleepagaininthehammock.Then
hedeterminedtogobackandhaveitoutwithher.
"Can'tI help with thosepeas?"he asked, sitting downbesideher. She lifted
herheadandlookedathimwitheyesofcondemnation."No,Idon'twantany
help with the peas. Or any help from you, anyhow. You'd better go upstairs
and sleep off your drunk before Miss Spear and Mr. Lorburn come round
again--"
"Mydrunk?"Vanceflushedcrimson."Idon'tknowwhatyoumean--"
"ThewordsareEnglish,Iguess.Andyou'llwantallyourwitsaboutyouwhen
youseeMr.Lorburn."
"Who'sMr.Lorburn?Whyshouldhewanttoseeme?"
"He'stheowneroftheWillows.He'lltellyousoonenoughwhyhewantsto
seeyou."
Vancefeltasinkingoftheheart."Idon'tknowwhatMr.Lorburn'sgottosay
tome,"hemuttered,buthedid.
"Well, I presume he does." Mrs. Tracy pushed aside the basket of peas and
stoodup. Herface wasa leadenwhiteandherlower liptwitched. "Notas I
care,"shecontinued,inalevelvoiceasblankashereyes,"whathesaysto
you,orwhatyoufeelaboutit.What'safewoldbooks,onewayoranother?I
don'tcareifyoudidtakehisbooks--"
"Takehisbooks?"Vancegasped;butshepaidnoheed.
"--Whenwhatyoutookfrommewasmyson.Itrustedhimwithyou,Vance;I
thoughtyou'dhadenoughkindnessinthishousetofeelsomeobligation.Isaid
toyou:'Well,gotothatgameifyou'reamindto.Butsweartomeyou'llbe
back the same night, both of you; and keep away from that Hayes and his
roughcrowd.'Andyousworetomeyouwould.AndhereIsatandwaitedand
waited--thefirst timeUptonwas ever away frommefor a night,andnot so
muchasknowingwherehewas.Andthenasecondnight,andnosignofyou.
IthoughtI'dgomadthen.Ibeganlifegrandenough,asyourfolks'lltellyou;
and now everything's gone from me except my children. And when you
crawledinyesterdayevening,thetwoofyou,Iknewrightawaywhereyou'd
been, and what you'd been doing-- and leading Upton into. It's not the first
timeyou'vebeenoutallnightsinceyoucamehere,VanceWeston;butIwasn't
goingtosayanythingabouttheothertime,ifonlyyou'dhaveletUptonalone.
NowIguessyou'dbettertellyourfolkstheairheredon'tagreewithyou.And
here'sthemoneyyourfathersentmeforyourfirstfortnight.Takeit."
Sheheldoutthemoneyinatwitchinghand,andVancetookitbecauseatthat
momenthewouldnothavedaredtodisobeyanyinjunctionshelaidonhim.
And, besides, he could understand her hating that money. There was
somethingmuchmorealarmingtohiminthewrathofthismildcreaturethan
intheexplosionsofthecholeric.WhenMr.WestonwasangryVanceknewit
bucked him up like a cocktail; but Mrs. Tracy's anger clearly caused her
suffering instead of relief, was only one more misery in a life made up of
them."IfithurtshertokeepthatmoneyI'dbettertakeit,"hethoughtvaguely.
"YoumeanI'dbettergo?"heasked.
"You'dbettergo,"sheflungbackwithwhitelips.
"I'm sorry," was all he could think of saying. It was awfully unjust about
Upton,buttheboywashisjuniorbytwoorthreeyears,andofcourse,ifhis
motherdidn'tknow...
"Allright,I'llgoifyousayso.IsthisMondayorTuesday?"
"It'sTuesday,andnearsuppertime,"saidMrs.Tracycontemptuously."I
trustyou'veenjoyedyoursleep."Shegatheredupthebasketofpodsand
thebowlofshelledpeas,andwalkedintothekitchen.Vancestoodgazingafter
her with a mind emptied of all willpower. It seemed incredible that three
nightsshouldhavepassedsinceheandUptonhadsetoutsolightheartedlyfor
theballgame.Hehadalwayshatedtheideaofdrunkenbouts--hadneverbeen
inone likethis sincehis freshmanyear. Hisself-disgust seemedto clingto
everypartofhim,likeabadtasteinthemouthorasmellofstaletobaccoin
the clothes. He didn't know what had become of the Vance of the mountain
poolandofthelibraryattheWillows....
The Willows! The name suddenly recalled Mrs. Tracy's menacing allusion.
WhathadshemeantbysayingthathehadtakenoldMr.Lorburn'sbooks?She
must have lost her head, worrying over Upton. He had left the books in a
mess,theeveningbeforetheballgame;herememberedthat.Hehadwantedto
gobackandstraightenthemout,andLorrySpearhaddissuadedhim;saidit
wastoodark,anditwouldn'tdo,inthatoldhouse,tolightacandle.Andnow
itwouldseemthattheabsenteeowneroftheplace,who,accordingtoMiss
Spear, never came there, had turned up unexpectedly, and found things in
disorder.Well,Vancehadtoownthatthefaultwashis;hewouldhavelikedto
seeMissSpear,andtellherso,beforeleaving.ButthepalehostilityofMrs.
Tracy'sfaceseemedtothrusthimoutofherdoor,outofPaul'sLanding.He
thoughttohimselfthattheeasiestthingwouldbetopackupandgoatonce--
hedid notwantto sit atthetable againwiththat faceoppositeto him.And
Upton, the dirty sneak, would be afraid, he felt sure, to say a word in his
defence...totellhismotherthattheHayesgang,andtheCrangirls,wereold
acquaintances...."No,I'llgonow,"Vancethought.
He went up to his room, packed up his clothes, and jammed his heap of
scribbledpapersinontopofthem;thenheleanedforamomentinthewindow
and looked out to the hills. Up there, behind that motionless mask of trees,
livedthegirlwithwhomhehadwanderedinanotherworld.Hewouldhave
liked to see her again, to be with her just once on those rocks facing the
sunrise. . . . Well . . . and how was he going to get his things down to the
station?Heguessedhewasstrongenoughbythistimetolugthemdownthe
lanetothetrolley...Hestarteddownstairswiththesuitcaseandtheunwieldy
old bag into which his mother, at the last moment, had crammed a lot of
uselessstuff.ThesoundofthebagsbumpingagainstthestairsbroughtMrs.
Tracy to the kitchen door. She stared at Vance, surprised: "Where are you
going?"
VancesaidhewasgoingtoNewYork.Shelookedalittlefrightened."Oh,but
youmustwaittilltomorrow.Ididn'tmean--"
"I'drathergotoday,"heansweredcoldly.
Shewipedherhandsonherapron."There'snoonetohelpyoutocarryyour
thingstothetrolley.Ididn'tmean--"
"IguessI'llgo,"Vancerepeated.Hewalkedalittlewaydownthegardenpath
andthenturned backtoMrs.Tracy. "I'dliketothankyouforyour kindness
while I've been here," he said; and she stammered again: "But you don't
understand...Ididn'tmean..."
"ButIdo,"saidVance.Heshoulderedhisbagsandwalkedtothegate.Mrs.
Tracystoodcryingintheporch,andthenhurriedinandshutthedoorbehind
her. Vance trudgedalongthe ruttylane, measuringhisweakness bytheway
the weight of his bags increased with every step. The perspiration was
streamingdownhisfacewhenhereachedthecorneroftheturnpike,andhe
satdownunderthesamethorntreewhere,soshortatimeago,hehadwaited
in the summer darkness for Halo Spear. Even the memory of that day was
obscuredforhimbywhathadhappenedsince.Hedidnotevenliketothinkof
MissSpear'stouchonhisarmassheturnedhimtowardthesunrise,orofthe
wayshehadlookedasshesatbythepoolleaningherheadonherhandand
listeningwhileherecitedhispoems toher.Allthatseemedtobelongtothe
far-offworldofthehills,theworldhehadvoluntarilyforsaken,hedidn'tknow
why....
Thetrolleycame,andhescrambledinandwascarriedtothestation.Whenhe
gottherehefoundthatthenexttrainforNewYorkwasnotleavingforanhour
andahalf.Hedepositedhispropertyinthebaggageroomand,wanderingout
again, stood aimlessly in the square, where the same tired horses with
discolouredmaneswereswingingtheirheadstoandfrounderthethinshade
ofthelocustboughs.Itseemedmonthssincehehadfirstgotoutofthetrain,
and seen that same square and those old-fashioned vehicles and languid
horses.Herememberedhisshockofdisappointment,andwassurprisedtofind
thathenowfeltachokinghomesicknessattheideaoflookingatitallforthe
lasttime.Suddenlyitoccurredtohimthathemightstillbeabletowalkasfar
as the Willows and have a last glimpse at its queer bracketed towers and
balconies.Hecouldnothavetoldwhyhewantedtodothis:theimpulsewas
involuntary. Perhaps it was because his hours in that shadowy library had
liftedhimtootherpinnacles,highereventhanThundertop.
Hewalkedfromthestationtothemainstreet,andatthecornerwasstartledby
thefamiliaryelpoftheEaglewoodmotor.Hisheartturnedoveratthethought
thatitmightbeMissSpear.Hesaidtohimself:"Perhapsifsheseesmeshe'll
stop and tell me she's sorry for what's happened"; and he softened at the
memoryofherlavishatonements.Butwhenthemotordisengageditselffrom
thetraffichefoundtherewasnooneinitbutJacob.
Vancewasabouttowalkon,buthesawJacobsignalling.Thethoughtstarted
up:"Hemayhaveamessage--aletter,"andhisheartbeatinthatconfusedway
ithadsincehisillness.Jacobdrewup."Seehere,Iwaslookingforyou.I've
beenroundtotheTracys'.Yougetrightinherewithme."
"Getinwithyou--why?"
"'Costhefolks'vesentmetobringyouovertotheWillows.They'rewaiting
foryoutherenow.TheysaidIwastogotoyourplaceandtellyouyouwasto
comerightoff."
The blood rushed to Vance's forehead, and his softened mood gave way to
resistance.Whowerethesepeople,toorderhimaboutinthisway?Didthey
reallysupposethathewasattheirbeckandcall?"Waitingforme?Whatfor?
I'm leaving for New York. Mrs. Tracy has the keys of the Willows. I've got
nothingtodowithit."
Jacobtook offhis straw hat and scratchedhishead perplexedly."MissHalo
shesaidyouwastocome.Shesaid:'You'vegottobringhim,deadoralive.'"
Jacob'sfaceexpressednothing;neithercuriositynorcomprehensiondisfigured
itssupremepassiveness.HisindifferencegaveVancetimetocollecthimself.
Heburstintoalaugh."Deadoralive--"thephrasewassolikeher!"Oh,I'm
alive enough. And I'll come along with you if she says so." In his heart he
knewMissSpearwasright:itwashisbusinesstoseeheragain,toexplain,to
excusehimself.Hehadfailedhershamefully...hehadn'tdonethejobshe
hadentrustedhimwith . . . he had left the books indisorder."Allright--I'll
go,"herepeated.HeknewtherewasatrainforNewYorklaterintheevening.
"Anyhow,"hethought,"I'mdonewiththeTracys...."
XIII
Thedoorofthehousestoodwide.Theafternoonradiancegildedtheemerald
veilofwillows,shotbackinfirefromtheunshutteredwindows,rifledthelast
syringasoftheirinmostfragrance.Vance,eventhroughhis
perturbation,feltagainthespelloftheoldhouse.Thatdoorhadfirstadmitted
himintotheillimitablewindingsofthePast;andasheapproachedthemagic
thresholdcompunctionandangervanished.
"Oh, Vance!" he heard Miss Spear exclaim. He caught in her rich voice a
minglingofreproachandapology--yes,apology.Shewasatoningalready--for
what?--butshewasalsochallenging."Iknewyou'dcome."Sheputherhand
on his arm with her light coercive touch. "Our cousin Mr. Tom Lorburn is
here--he arrived unexpectedly on Sunday to see the Willows. It's years and
yearssincehe'sbeenhere...."
"A surprise visit," came a voice, an old cracked fluty voice, querulous and
distinguished,fromthedrawingroom."AndIwassurprised....Butperhaps
you'llbringtheyoungmaninhere,Halo....Whateveryouhavetosaytohim
mayaswellbesaidinmypresence,sinceIamhere..."
The little tirade ended almost in a wail, as the speaker, drooping in the
doorway,lookeddownonVancefromthevantageofhisnarrowshouldersand
lean brown throat. Vance looked up, returning the gaze. He had hardly ever
seen anyone as tall as Mr. Lorburn, and no one, ever, as plaintively and
unhappilyhandsome. Achronicdistress was writtenonthe narrowbeautiful
facecondescendingtohis,withitsperfectlyarchednose,andthesensitivelips
underacarefullytrimmedwhitemoustache;andthedistresswasrepeatedin
the droop of Mr. Lorburn's shoulders under their easily fitting homespun, in
thehollowingofhischest,andtheclutchofhislongexpressivebrownhand
(solikeMrs.Spear's)onthebamboostickwhichsupportedhim.
"SinceunhappilyIamhere,"Mr.Lorburnrepeated.
Miss Spear met this with a little laugh. "Oh, Cousin Tom--why unhappily?
After all, since you've come, it was just as well you should arrive when we
wereallnapping."
Mr.Lorburnbenthisgrievedeyesuponher."Justaswell?""Thatyoushould
knowtheworst."
"Ah,thatweneverknow,mychild;there'salwayssomethingworsebehindthe
worst. . . ." Mr. Lorburn, shaking his head, turned back slowly through the
drawing room. "There's my health, to begin with, which no one but myself
everappearstothinkof.Ashockofthiskind,inthisheat..."
"Well, here's Vance Weston, who has come, as I knew he would, to clear
thingsup."
Mr.LorburnconsideredVanceagaininthelightofthisfreshintroduction."I
shouldbegladifhecoulddothat,"hesaid.
"Then,"saidMissSpearbriskly,"let'sbeginbytransportingourselvestothe
sceneofthecrime,astheysayintheFrenchlawreports."
SheslippedherarminMr.Lorburn's,andledhimthroughthetwodrawing
rooms, his long wavering stride steadied by her firm tread. Vance followed,
wondering.
Inthelibrarytheshutterswereopen,andthewesternsunstreamedinonthe
sceneofdisorderwhichVancehadleftsolightheartedlythreedaysbefore.He
wonderedathisowncallousness.Intheglareofthesummerlighttheroom
looked devastated, dishonoured; and the long grave face of Miss Elinor
Lorburn,withitschalkyhighlightsonbrowandlappets,seemedtoappealto
her cousin and heir for redress. "See how they have profaned my solitude--
that,atleast,myfamilyalwaysrespected!"
Mr.Lorburnlethimselfdownbycautiousdegrees into the Gothic armchair.
"Atleast,"heechoed,asifansweringthelook,"ifInevercamehere,Igave
strictordersthatnothingshouldbetouched...thateverythingshouldremain
absolutelyassheleftit."
ThewordsweredreadfultoVance.HiseyesfollowedMr.Lorburn'saboutthe
room,restingonthebookspitcheddownonchairsandtables,onthegaping
spacesoftheshelves,andthelinesofvolumeswhichhadcollapsedforlackof
support.ThenhelookedatthecigaretteasheswhichLorrySpearhadscattered
irreverently on the velvet table cover, and his gaze turned back to Mr.
Lorburn's scandalized countenance. He felt too crushed to speak. But Miss
Spearspokeforhim:
"Now,CousinTom,thatallsoundsverypretty;butjustconsiderwhatwould
havehappenedifwe'dobeyedyouliterally.Theplacewouldhavebeenafoot
deepindust.Everythinginitwouldhavebeenruined;andifthehousehadn't
beenregularlyairedyourpreciousbookswouldhavebeencoveredwithgreen
mould.Sowhat'stheuse--"
Vance lifted his head eagerly, reassured by her voice. "The books did need
cleaning," he said. "But I was wrong not to put them back after I'd wiped
them,thewayyoutoldmeto.Factis,I'dneverhadachanceatrealbooks
before,andIgotreading,andforgoteverything...."HelookedatMiss
Spear."I'msorry,"hesaid.
Mr.Lorburn,leaningonhisstick,emittedafaintgroan."Theyoungman,as
he says himself, appears to have forgotten everything--even to return the
bookshehastakenfromhere."
AgainMrs. Tracy's accusation! Vance turned hiseyesonMiss Spear; but to
his bewilderment her eloquence seemed to fail her. She met his glance, but
onlyforamoment;thenherswasaverted.Atlastshesaidinalowvoice:"I'm
surehe'lltellyouthebooksareatMrs.Tracy's...thathetookthemawayto
finishreadingsomethingthatinterestedhim...withoutrealisingtheirvalue..
.."
"I'mwaitingtohearwhathehastotellme,"Mr.Lorburnrejoined."ButImust
remind you, Halo, that, according to your own statement, Mrs. Tracy has
lookedeverywhere forthebooks, andbeenforced to theconclusion--asyou
were--thatwhentheyoungmandisappearedfromherhousehetookthemwith
him.Perhapshe will now say if he has been obliging enough to bring them
back."
Mr.Lorburnrevolvedhissmallheadonhislongthinneckandfixedhiseyes
onVance.
Vance felt the muscles of his face contracting. His lips were so stiff that he
could hardly move them. These people were suggesting that he had taken
awaybooksfromtheWillows--valuablebooks!ThisMr.Lorburn,apparently,
wasalmostaccusinghimofhavingstolenthem!Whatelsecouldhemeanby
thephrase"WhenhedisappearedfromMrs.Tracy'shetookthemwithhim"?
Vance felt as defenceless as a little boy against whom a schoolmate had
trumpedupalyingcharge;inhisfirstbewildermenthedidnotknowwhatto
say,orwhattonetotake.Thenhisangerrushedtohislips.
"What'sthisabouttakingbooksawayanddisappearing?Ineverdisappeared.I
went with Upton to a ball game." He felt himself redden at the memory. "I
nevertookasinglebookawayfromhere,notone."
MissSpearinterruptedeagerly:"Itoldyouso,CousinTom...Iwassure..
.."
Mr. Lorburn leaned more heavily on his stick. "Where are they then?" Her
headdrooped,andsheturnedfromhimwithanappealinggesture."Vance?--"
"Whatbooks?"Vanceaskedagain.
Mr.Lorburndrewhimselftohisfeetandbegantomoveacrosstheroomwith
shakingsidewaysteps,hisstickpointedfirstatoneshelf,thenatanother.As
hedidsohereeledoffasuccessionoflongtitles,alltoounfamiliartoVance
forhisear to hold them. He heard "rare Americana,"anddidnot know if it
werethenameofabookorareferencetosomeliterarycategoryhehadnever
met with. At last he said: "I never even heard of the names of any of those
books.WhyonearthshouldIhavetakenthem?"
"Never heard of them?" Mr. Lorburn spluttered. "Then some accomplished
bibliophilemusthavegivenyoualist."Helookedpaleandgasping,likeafish
agonizing for water. "Oh, my heart--I should never have let myself to be
drawn into this." Sitting down again, he closed his lids and leaned his head
againsttheknobbycarvingofthearmchair.
Vance was alarmed by his appearance; but he noticed that it did not affect
MissSpear.Shecontinuedtofixheranxiousgazeuponhimself."Justtryto
remember exactly what happened." She spoke as if reassuring a child. Her
voicewas tookind, toocompassionate;his owncaught inhisthroat, andhe
feltthetearsswelling.
"OfcourseIdidn'ttakeanybooks,"herepeated."AndIdidn'tdisappear--I
wentwithUpton...."
"Of course," she said. "But the books are gone. There's the point. Very
valuableones,unluckily."
("Themostvaluable,"Mr.Lorburninterjected,hiseyesstillclosed.)
"Think,Vance;whenyouleftlastSaturdaynight,didn'tyouforgettoshutthis
window?"Shepointedtothewindownearwhichshestood.
ThedefinitenessofthequestionclearedVance'smind.
"No,Ididn't.IfastenedalltheshuttersandwindowsbeforeIleft."
Shepaused,andhesawalookofuncertaintyinherface."Thinkagain,please.
On Sunday morning this one was found open, and the shutter had been
unhookedfromtheinside.Someonemusthavegotinafteryouleft,andtaken
thebooks,forthey'rereallygone.We'vehuntedeverywhere."
Vancerepeated: "I fastenedallthe shutters; I'msureI did. And Ilockedthe
front door." He stopped, and then remembered that when he left the house
LorburnSpearhadbeenwithhim."Askyourbrother;Iguesshe'llremember."
Ashespoke,therecamebacktohimthesensationhehadexperiencedashe
waited in the dusk of the hall for Lorry Spear, who had gone back to the
librarytofindhiscigarettecase.Hehadbeenalongtimefindingit,andwhile
Vancewaitedhehadheardthatmysterioussoundsomewhereinthedistance:a
soundlikeawindowopeningorashutterswingingloose.Hehadthoughtof
LauraLou'schildishfears,smiledthemaway,andneverthelessturnedbackto
see....
"Mybrother?Yes,Iknowhewaswithyou,"MissSpearsaid,almostirritably.
Her face looked expressionless, cold. "He says it was you who attended to
closingthehouse."
"Well,doesn'thesayIclosedeverything?"
"He says he doesn't remember." She paused, and then began, in a hasty
authoritative tone: "Someone must have broken in. Someone has taken the
books. Try to remember what happened when you were leaving--try again,
Vance,"sheurged,moregently.
Mr.Lorburnstillsatwithclosedeyes,andthegaspingfishlikeexpression.He
murmuredagain:"Ioughtnottohaveletmyselfbedrawnintothis--"andthen
wassilent.
Vance looked resolutely at Miss Spear. Her eyes wavered, as if trying to
escape from him; then they bathed him in a fluid caress. The caress poured
overhim,enveloping,persuading.Thewordswereonhislips:"Butafterwe
leftthelibraryyourbrotherwentbacktoitalone--whilehewasthereIhearda
windowopened...orthoughtIdid...."Thoughtyoudid?Butonlythought,
hersmilewhisperedback, silencinghim. Howcan you suggest (it said) . . .
andanyhow,whatusewoulditbe?Don'tyouseethatIcan'tletyoutouchmy
brother?Vancefelthimselfsubduedandmastered..
..Hecouldn'thurther...hecouldn't.Hehadthesenseofbeingshutinwith
herinahiddencircleofunderstandingandconnivance.
"Of course a burglar broke in somehow and stole the books," he heard her
beginagainwith renewed energy."Come,Cousin Tom;why should we stay
anylonger?It'sjustupsettingyou....Thisisajobforthepolice."
SheheldoutherhandtoVance."I'msorry--butIhadtoaskyoutocome."
Hesaidofcourseshehadto...heunderstood;buttheonlythinghereally
understoodwasthatshehadboundhimfastinanetofunspokenpledges.As
they reached the door she turned back. "We'll see you again soon--at
Eaglewood?Promise...."
Buthehadgivenherhislastpromise."Idon'tknow.I'mgoingtoNew
York....MaybeI'llhavetogobackhome...."
Mr. Lorburn had descended the steps and was walking unsteadily along the
drive.MissSpearlookedatVance."Yes,go,"shesaidquickly,"butcomeback
someday."Herfacewassunnedoverwithrelief;foramomentshereminded
himofthegirlofthemountaintop."Don'tforgetme,"shesaid,andpressedhis
hand.SheunlockedthegateandsprangintothecarafterMr.Lorburn.Vance
watchedthemdriveaway.Thenhewalkedslowlydownthelanewithoutonce
lookingbackattheoldhouse.Hefeltsickatheart,diminishedandashamed,
as he had at Crampton the day he had seen his grandfather prowling by the
river.
XIV
Vance Weston had started from Euphoria with two hundred dollars; and to
whatwas leftof thatsum therewasadded themoney Mrs.Tracyhad thrust
back at him as they started. After he had sat for a while in the train, dazed
fromtheshockofhislasthourattheWillows,herememberedthathenceforth
hemustsubsistonthebalanceofhisfunds,andhedrewthemoneyoutand
countedit.Hehadboughtaten-dollarwristwatchforUptoninNewYork,the
daytheywenttotheballgame,andarainbow-colouredscarfforLauraLou,to
console her for not coming; the scarf, he thought, had cost about three-
seventy-five.Ontheeveoftheirill-fatedexpeditionhehadlenttendollarsto
LorburnSpear;andattheballgame,and afterward at the Crans', had stood
drinks, soft and hard, a good many times. He remembered also that the
fellows, with a lot of laughing and joking, had clubbed together to buy the
Cran girls a new watchdog; and good watchdogs, it appeared, came pretty
high.Still,itgavehimanunpleasantshockofsurprisetofindthathehadonly
ninety-twodollarsleft,includingthemoneyreturnedbyMrs.Tracy.Hecould
notrecallwheretheresthadgone;hismemoryofwhathadhappenedatthe
Crans'wastoovague.
NinetydollarswouldhavecarriedhimalongwayatEuphoria.InNewYork
hedidn'tknowhowfaritwouldgo--muchless,assuredly.Andhedidn'teven
knowwheretoturnwhenhegotoutofthetrain,wheretofindalodgingfor
the night. In the car there were people who could no doubt have told him,
friendly experienced-looking people; but no familiar face was among them,
andarusticcautionkepthimfromquestioningstrangersontheapproachtoa
big city. As the train entered the Grand Central he hurriedly consulted the
blackporter,andthelatter,afterlookinghimoverwithabenevolenteye,gave
him an address near the station. He found a narrow brick hotel squeezed in
between tall buildings, with a dingy black- and-gold sign over the door. It
lookeddismalandunappetizingenough;buthisbedthere,andhiscoffeenext
morning, cost him so much that he decided he must not remain for another
night,andwanderedoutearlyinsearchofaroominghouse.
Thenoiseandrushoftraffic,theclamourofthesignboards,theglitterofthe
innumerable shops distracted him from his purpose, and hours passed as he
strayedoncuriouslyfromstreettostreet.Somefacultyseparatefrommindor
heart,somethingdetachedandkeen,wasrousedinhimbythistumultoflife
and wealth and energy, this ceaseless outpour of more people, more noises,
more motors, more shopfuls of tempting and expensive things. He thought
whatfun itwouldbe to writeanovel ofNewYorkandcall it Loot--andhe
began to picture how different life would have seemed that morning had he
hadthetypescriptofthefinishednovelunderhisarm,andbeenonhiswayto
theeditorialofficesofoneofthebigmagazines.Theideaforamomentswept
away all his soreness and loneliness, and made his heart dilate with
excitement. "Well, why not? . . . I'll stay here till I've done it," he swore to
himselfinafeverofdefiance.
Hehaltedbeforeashopwindowdisplayingflowersingiltbaskets,ormounted
inclusterstiedwithbigpinkbows.ThemoneyMrs.Tracyhadreturnedwas
burninginhispocket,andhesaidtohimselfthathecouldnotkeepitanother
minute.Inone cornerof thewindow wasanarrangementwhichparticularly
tookhisfancy:astuffeddoveperchedonthegilthandleofabasketofsweet
peasand maidenhair fern. It recalledtohimMiss Spear's description ofthat
templetoApollo,somewhereinGreece,whichhadbeenbuiltbythebirdsand
bees;andlookingattheburnishedneckofthedovehethought:"Thatmight
havebeenoneofthebirds."Therewasagood-natured-lookingwomaninthe
shop,andheventuredtoaskherthepriceoftheobjecthecoveted.Shesmiled
alittle,asifsurprised."Why,that'stwenty-fivedollars."
Vancecrimsoned."Iwaslookingforsomethingforthirty."
"Oh,wereyou?"saidthewoman,stillsmiling."Well,there'sthosecarnations
overthere."
Vancedidn't care for thecarnations;the bird on thebaskethandle was what
attractedhim."LauraLou'lllikeitanyhow,"hethought.Andsuddenlyanidea
occurred to him, and he asked the woman whether, for thirty dollars, she
wouldhavethebasketcarriedforhimthatverymorningtothehouseofalady
atPaul'sLanding.Shelookedstillmoresurprised,andthenamused,andafter
theyhadhuntedupPaul'sLandinginthetelephonebook,shesaid,yes, she
guessedshecould,andVance,delighted,pulledoutthirtydollars,andhispen
to write the address. She pushed a card toward him, and after a moment's
perplexity he wrote: "I thank you, Cousin Lucilla," addressed the envelope,
andwalkedoutwithalighterstep.Thewomanwasalreadywrappingupthe
dove.
Hewasbeginningtofeelhungry,andtheinstinctofclingingtotherelatively
familiardrewhimbacktotheGrandCentral,whereheknewhecouldlunch.
As he entered he almost ran into a motherly-looking woman with a large
yellowishfaceandblowsygrayhair,whoworeamilitaryfelthatwithaband
inscribed: "The Travellers' Friend." Vance went up to her, and her smile of
welcomereassuredhimbeforehehadspoken.Hewantedto knowofanice
quiet rooming house? Why, surely--that was just what she was there for.
Countryboy,sheguessed?Well,whywouldn'thebringhisthingsrightround
toFriendshipHouse,justalittlewayoff,downinEastFiftieth--shefumbled
in her bag and handed him the address on a card with: "Bring your friend
along--always room for one more," in red letters across the top. That, she
explained, was the men's house; she herself was in the station to look after
womenandgirls,andtherewasanotherhouseforthemnotfaroff;butVance
hadonlytomentionhernametoMr.Jakesandthey'dfindaroomforhim,and
give him the addresses of some respectable rooming houses. She shook his
hand, beamed on him maternally, and turned away to deal with a haggard
bewildered-lookingwomanwhowassaying:"Myhusbandsaidhe'dsurebeat
thestationtomeetme,butIcan'tfindhim,andthebaby'sbeensickinthecars
allnight...."
AtFriendshipHouseVancewasreceivedbyanamiablemanwithgoldteeth,
givensupperofcoffeeandbreadandbutter,andassignedtoaspotlesscubicle.
NottillhewasfallingasleepdiditoccurtohimthatMrs.Tracyhadarowof
sweet peas in her own garden, and that a stuffed dove could hardly
compensate her for the cost of his fortnight's board. He felt ashamed of his
stupidity, and was haunted all night by the vision of the dreary smile with
whichshe would receivehisinappropriate tribute.Probablyeven LauraLou
wouldnotknowwhattodowithastuffeddove.
Yetthatbasket,withthelustrousbirdsolightlypoisedonit,hadseemedall
poetrywhenhechoseit....
Theweekspassed. After Vance's regulation twenty-four hours at Friendship
House he was recommended to a rooming house which was certainly as
respectableastheyhadpromised,butofferedfewotherattractions,atleastin
hot weather. During those first lonely suffocating days and nights Vance's
weakbodyandsorespirityearnedforhisneatroomathome,theglitterofthe
bath,theshadeoftheMapledaleAvenuetrees.Butsincehewasdeterminedto
holdontillhegotajobhedarednotrisktakingabetterroom;andthethought
ofgoing homewas morehatefulthanhispresentmisery.Yetloneliness was
thecoreofthatmisery; incessant gnawing loneliness of mind and heart. He
wasbenumbedbythefeelingthatinthehugewildernessofpeopleabouthim
notonehadeverheardofhim,orwouldtaketheleastinterestinhiscaseifhe
shouldappealforunderstanding;notonewouldcareastrawthatwithinhim
all the forces of the universe were boiling. He felt the same desolation, the
senseoflifebeingoverforhim,aswhenhehadstaggereddownthepassageto
hisparents'roomandgropedfortheabsentrevolver....
Butthereturningtideofvitalitydidnotmountasrapidlyasithadthen.The
situation was different. Then he had made up his mind to wait till life gave
himanotherchance;andlifehadgivenhimthatchance--magnificently--and
whathadhe madeofit?Hisrage againstMrs.Tracy,againstUptonandthe
Spears,wasamerepassingflare-up;itsoongaveplacetoalastingsenseof
failure.Hehadbeenatfault,andheonly.Uptonwasaslylittlefool,buthe,
Vance,wastheolderofthetwo,andbeingthemoreexperiencedshouldhave
been the stronger. He should have resisted the temptation to loaf and drink
with those wasters and flashy girls, should have remembered his promise to
Mrs. Tracy to come home with Upton after the game. If he had, everything
mighthavebeendifferent,forearlythenextmorninghewouldhavehurried
back to the Willows, have noticed that the books were gone, and perhaps
preventedhisown disgraceandMissSpear'sunhappiness... .Hecouldnot
forget how unhappy she had looked when it first flashed on her that her
brother had probably taken the books. Vance ached with that more than his
ownwretchedness.Hisonlycomfortwasthathehadseenatoncewhatwas
passingthroughhermind,hadcaughthersignalandobeyedit.Heknewshe
hadperceivedthis,andbeengrateful;andthefactthatshehadsacrificedhim
toherbrotherdidnotoffendhim--itseemedtocreateanewtiebetweenthem.
...
All this worked out gradually in his mind, and meanwhile he waited, and
reflectedonhissituation.Hisfirstimpulsehadbeennottolethis
whereaboutsbeknowntoanyone.Helivedindreadofbeingdraggedbackto
EuphoriawhenhisparentslearnedthathehadlefttheTracys.Whathelonged
for was to vanish into space, to get off into a universe of his own where
nothingassociatedwithhisformerlife could reach him. It was whathehad
triedtodo afterhehadseenhis grandfatherandFlossDelaneyby theriver;
onlythistimehissuicidewouldhavetakentheformoflosinghimselfinabig
city,tore-emergefromitwhenhehadmadehimselfanewexistence.Buthe
soon came to his senses and realized that Mrs. Tracy, frightened by his
departure,wouldbesuretowritetohisfamily,andthat,ifhegavethemno
sign,theywouldbefrightenedalso,andwouldsetallthemachineryofpolice
researchinmotion.Itwasnoteasyforafellowwithananxiousfamilytolose
himselfinthesetimes;andVancehadnothadthepresenceofmindtogivea
fictitiousnameathislodgings.
Hewrotebrieflytohismother,tellingherhewasdoingwell;andwouldn'this
folks please let him alone and give him a show in New York, now he'd got
there?Hesaidhe'dleftPaul'sLandingbecausehefeltquitestrongenoughto
takeajobonapaper,anddidn'tcaretoloafaroundanylongerattheTracys',
whereitwasagooddealhotterthaninthecity,anyhow.Headdedthathehad
moneyenoughleft,andhadalreadymadetheacquaintanceofafamouseditor
(and so he had, though he would rather have starved than appeal to George
Frenside); and he arranged with the good-natured secretary at Friendship
House to receive his letters, so that his family should be reassured by the
address.
Accidentfavouredhim.HissisterMaewrotethathisfatherhadjustleftfora
Realtors'CongressatSeattleandwouldnotreturnforamonthormore;and
thatthoughMrs.Westonwasupsetandanxiousattheideaofhisbeingalone
inNew Yorkshe hadbeenpersuaded byGrandmaScrimsernotto interfere,
but to let him try his luck, at any rate till his father got back. This being
settled, Vance turned his mind to the means of holding out--for he was sure
that,untilhegotajob,hisfatherwouldnotthinkofsendinghimmoremoney.
Hispromisedallowancehadbeenmeanttoseehimthroughhisconvalescence
atPaul'sLanding;ifhedidn'tchoosetostaythere,andwasstrongenoughto
work--well,lethim.
MeanwhilehehadNewYorktohimself,andhisfirstbusinesswastocollect
hiswitsandtrynottomissthischanceashehadtheother.Themainthingwas
toseehowlonghecouldmakehisremainingdollarslast;andhebenthismind
onthis,foregoingallamusementswhichhadtobe
paid for, eating at the cheapest places he could find, often going without a
middaymeal,andwanderingaboutthestreetsforhoursstaringatthestrange
confusedspectaclewhichremainedsomockinglyunawareofhim.
Butallhismomentswerenotlonely.Afewdaysafterhisarrivalhehappened
to emerge upon Fifth Avenue just opposite the public library. Awed by its
rhetoricalfaçade,sounlikeahauntofstudiouspeace,hestoodwonderingifit
were one of the swell hotels he'd heard about--the Ritz or the St. Regis--till
lookingmorecloselyhereaditsdesignation.Instantlyhedashedupthevast
steps, entered the doors unabashed, and asked the first official he met if he
couldgoinandread....Hecould,itappeared,andwithoutpayingacent,and
formanyhoursoftheday.Atfirsthewasperplexedastohisnextstep;but
wherebookswereconcernedsomeinstinctseemedtoguidehim,andpresently
hehadbeenmadefreeofaseriesofcardcatalogues,andwaslostinthemas
in the murmurs of a forest. . . . True, the place lacked the magic of the
Willows,sincethereaderhadtoknowbeforehandwhathewanted,andcould
not roam at will from shelf to shelf, subject to the mysterious, the almost
physicalappealofbooksactuallyvisibleandaccessible.Thatjoywasonehe
couldnothopetofindagaintill--well,tillhehadmademoneyenoughtohave
hisownlibrary.Butmeanwhileitwaswonderfulenoughtositinarecessofa
quietroom,withapileofvolumesinfrontofhim,hiselbowsonthetable,his
handsplungedinhishair,hissoulimmersedinanewworld....
Theweekspassed,andthoughhishoursatthepubliclibrarycosthimnothing,
thosespentinhisroominghousewereusinguphisfunds.Inspiteofwhathe
had written to his mother he had not as yet looked up a newspaper job. He
wanted first to acquaint himself a little more with New York, its aspect, its
ways, its language; to appear less of a hayseed and an ignoramus. That, at
least,waswhathetoldhimself;butinrealityhishoursatthelibrarywereso
engrossing, and his ignorance had revealed itself on a scale so unsuspected
andoverwhelming,thateachdaydrewhimbacktothelion-guardedgatesof
knowledge.Tocheathimselfintothinkingthathecouldlivethusindefinitely
hebegantoplanhisnovelofNewYork;nordiditstrikehimtillafterwardthat
arawboywhoseexperiencewasboundedbyaroominghouseandalibrary
wouldfinditevenharderto weavea taleout ofthemillionsofstrandsofa
great city's activities than to evolve copy for a newspaper. Everything that
appealed to his creative instinct always seemed to become a part of his
experience, and he sat down with a passionate eagerness to block out his
dream.Butheknewthatthis
novel,evenifhecoulddoit,wouldtakeanimmensetimeinthedoing;and
meanwhilehemustfindthemeanstolive.
Drifting from dream to dream, eating daily less, studying daily for longer
hours,heenteredintothestateofstrangeilluminationwhichcomestoardent
youthwhenthebodyhungerswhiletheintelligenceisfed.Hisshakingfingers
filled page after page with verse and prose; it seemed as though every
difficultyofthoughtandlanguagewereovercome,andhecouldconceiveand
formulatewhateverhisrestlessintellectwilled.Theveilofmatterhadgrown
so transparent that the light of eternity shone through it, and in that pure
radiancehecouldseewithsupernaturalclearnesstheimagesofgodswalking
amongmen,andangelsgoingupanddowntheheavenlyladder.ButJacob's
pillowisahardoneforayoungheadstillweakfromfever;andonemorning
whenafteranightoftossingmiseryhecrawledtohistableandpulledouthis
papers, his mind was a blank, and he could hardly decipher what he had
writtenthedaybefore.Helookedupandsawintheblotchedlookingglassa
face so bloodless and shrunken that he thought he must be on the verge of
anotherillness;andwhen hecountedhis moneyhe foundhecould nothold
out,evenonastarvationdiet,formorethanaweek.
The world grew light and dizzy about him, as if the air had turned into
millions of shimmering splinters. He managed to dress and get out to the
nearesteatinghouse,andforthefirsttimeindaysheorderedhotcoffeeanda
couple of eggs. After eating he felt better, but so tired and heavy that he
crawled home and threw himself on his unmade bed; and there he slept
dreamlesslyforhours.Whenhewokeheunderstoodthathemusthavemore
food,andthattheonlywaytogetitwastotryforajob.Hefelttooweakto
think much more than that; but he gave himself another good meal, and the
next day started out on his round. He went from one newspaper to another,
wasreceivedeithercivillyorthereverse,wasaskedtostatehisqualifications,
andsawhisnameandaddresstakendown;butnooneshowedanyinterestin
him, and he turned away hopeless from the last threshold. With no one to
recommendhim,andnopastexperienceofnewspaperwork,whatchancewas
thereofhisgettingajob?TheonlyalternativewasEuphoria;buthewastoo
disheartenedtolethisminddwellonthat.
There was just one other chance; that Mr. Frenside, in spite of his gruff
sneering way, had not been unfriendly. He knew of Vance's aspirations, and
perhaps would be willing to advise him--unless unfavourable rumours had
reached him from Eaglewood. But Vance remembered Halo Spear's kindly
glancewhenshetookleaveofhim,heardhersay:"Gonow--but
comebacksomeday,"andguessedthat,howeverbentshewasonscreening
herbrother,shewouldnotletVancesufferunjustly.Hehadfoundoutbythis
time that The Hour, as he had suspected, was a mere highbrow review, and
therefore not to his purpose; but Frenside must have relations with the
newspaperworld,andwouldbeabletotellhimwheretherewashopeofan
openingforanuntrainedoutsider.Atanyrate,itwastheonlythinglefttotry.
XV
The Hour was modestly housed on an upper floor of a shabby ex-private
house;nonoiselesslift,plate-glassdoorsorsilver-buttonedguardiansledtoits
threshold. But the typewriter girl in the outer office, who said, no, Mr.
Frensidewasn'ttheeditor,butonlyliteraryadviser,addedthatsheguessedhe
wastherethatmorning,andpresentlyreturnedtoshowVanceintoastuffycell
fullofcigarsmokewhereFrensideleanedonanink-spatteredtableandfixed
Vancewithhisunencouragingstare.
"Oh,yes--Westonyournameis?Well,sitdown."
Hesmokedandstaredforawhile;thenheexclaimed:"ByGeorge,Isawyou
up at Eaglewood, didn't I? Why, yes--that business of the books. . . . Miss
Spear'llbegladI'verunacrossyou.Thebookswerefound,shewantedyouto
know...."
"Thebooks?"Vancelookedathimvaguely.Inthisshimmeringdubiousworld
inwhichhehadlatelylivedthestoryofthebooksattheWillowshadbecome
asforgottenandfar-offathingasthesonginoneofthosepoemsMissSpear
hadreadtohim;MissSpearherselfwasonlyamistamongmists;allVance
couldthinkofnowwasthathemustgetthistaciturnmanbehindthecigarto
findhimajob.
"Why,yes,thebooksturnedup,"Frensiderepeated."How?"Vanceaskedwith
aneffort.
"Idon'tknowtheparticulars.ItseemsLewisTarrant--yourememberthatfair
youngmanwho'salwaysupatEaglewood?--well,hemanagedtobuy
them back . . . advertised, I believe . . . offered a reward. . . . They never
caughtthethief;butthatdidn'tsomuchmatter.Themainthingwastogetthe
books.Sothatquestion'sclosed."
"Well,I'mglad,"Vanceforcedhimselftosay.Andheknewhewouldbe,in
theotherworldofsolidmatter,ifeverhegotbacktoit....
HefeltthatFrensidewaslookingathimmoreattentively."That'snotwhatyou
came for, though? Well, let's hear." He settled back in his chair, listening in
silence to what Vance had to say, and drumming on the table as if he were
rappingouthissecretthoughtsonatypewriter.
Vancestammeredthroughthetaleofhisvainquest,andwonderedifperhaps
Mr. Frenside could recommend him to a newspaper--but the other cut him
short.Hehadn'tanypullofthatsort;sorry;butVancehadbettergostraight
homeifhehadanopeningonanewspaperthere.Vanceturnedpaleandmade
noanswer;hecursedhimselfinwardlyforhavingappealed,againsthisbetter
judgment,tothismanwhocarednothingforhimandwasperhapsprejudiced
bywhathadhappenedattheWillows.
"Allright,sir,thankyou,"hesaid,gettingtohisfeet,andturningtothedoor.
Ashedidso,Frensidespoke."Seehere--goinghome'sanastydosetoswallow
sometimes,isn'tit?Iremember...atyourage....Whydoyouwanttogoon
anewspaper,anyhow?"
Vance,leaningagainstthedoorway,answered:"Iwanttolearntobeawriter."
"And that's the reason--" Frenside gave a gruff laugh. Vance looked at him
curiously."Isthereanyotherway?"
"There'sonlyoneway.Buckledownandwrite.Newspaperswon'thelpyou."
Vancefeltthebloodrushtohisforehead."Ihave...Ihave...triedtowrite..
.."
Frensidereachedforamatch,relithiscigar,andoncemoresaid:"Sitdown."
Vanceobeyed."Whathaveyouwritten?Gotitinyourpocket,Isuppose?Let's
see."
Vance,withafeverishhand,pulledoutabundleofpapers--thepoemshehad
writtenatPaul'sLanding,andsomeofthestuffwhichhadpouredfrom
hispen inthe longhungry hoursattheroominghouse. Helaid themonthe
desk,andFrensideadjustedhiseyeglasses.ItseemedtoVanceasifhewere
fittinghiseyestoanexceptionallypowerfulmicroscope.
"H'm--poetry.Allpoetry?""MostofwhatI'vewrittenis."
"Well,poetrywon'tearnyourkeep:it'spureluxury.Likekeepingacar."
Silencefollowed.AtintervalsitwasbrokenbywhatsoundedtoVancelikethe
roarofthesea,butwasinrealitythescarceaudiblerustleasFrensideunfolded
one sheet after another. He was doubtless not accustomed to reading
manuscript,andtoVance'sagonyofapprehensionwasaddedthemortification
of not having been able to type his poems before submitting them. In most
editorialoffices,heknew,theywouldn'tlookathandwrittenthings;presenting
the poems to Frenside in this shape would probably do away with their one
chance. Vance thought of offering to read them aloud, remembered Miss
Spear'scommentonhisenunciation,anddarednot.
Theroarofunfoldingpagescontinued.
"H'm,"saidFrensideagain.Hespreadthepapersoutbeforehim,andpuffedin
silence.
"Well,you'reatthesedulousage,"hecontinuedafterapause.(Whatdidthat
mean?)"Can'tbehelped,ofcourse.Here'stheinevitableShakespearesonnet:
'What am I but the shape your love has made me?'--and the Whitman: 'Vast
enigmatic reaches of ocean beyond me'--just so. It is beyond you, my dear
fellow,atleastatpresent.Everseentheocean?"
Vancecouldhardlyfindhisvoice.Heshookhishead.
"NotevenatConeyIsland?"Frensideshrugged."Notthatthatmatters.Look
here;thisisallPoets'Cornerstuff.Tryitonyourhometownpaper.That'smy
advice.Thereareprettythingshereandthere,ofcourse;youlikethefeelof
words,don'tyou?Butpoetry,myson,isnotahalfwaything.Irememberonce
asking a book-learned friend if he cared for poetry, and he answered
cautiously:'Yes,uptoacertainpoint.'Well,thedevilofitisthatrealpoetry
doesn'tbegintillbeyondthatcertainpoint....See?"
Vancesignedthathesaw:somehowhelikedthatdefinitionofpoetry,evenat
thecostofhavingtosacrificehisowntoit.
"Howaboutprose;neverwrittenany?"
The unexpectedness of the question jerked Vance out of the clouds. "I--I'm
writinganovel."
"Hullo--areyou?Whatabout.""AboutlifeinNewYork."
"Ithoughtso,"saidFrensidegrimly.Therewasanothersilence."Nevertried
anarticleorashortstory?"
"Never anything--good enough." Vance got wearily to his feet. "I guess I'll
takethesethingsandburn'em,"hesaid,puttingouthishandsforthepoems.
"No,don'tdothat.Keep'em,andreread'eminacoupleofyears.Thatrequires
morecourage,andcourageisaboutthemostusefulthinginanartist'soutfit."
Vancewasbeginningtothinkitmustbe.
"Well," Frenside continued, "if ever you try a short essay, or a story, bring
themalong.Don'tforget."Hesmiledalittle,asiftobindupthewoundshe
hadinflicted."Younevercantell,"heconcludedcryptically.
Heheldouthishand.Theinterviewwasover.
The interview was over; but when Vance reached the foot of the stairs he
perceiveditsrepercussionswereonlyjustbeginning.Hewanderedonthrough
astreetortwo,foundhimselfinUnionSquare,andsatdownunderthemeagre
shade of its starved trees. The other people on the bench with him, listless
sodden-looking men, collarless and perspiring, seemed like companions in
miserywhohadprecededhimaflightortwodownthesteepstairsoffailure.
Perhapstheytoo--oratleastoneamongthem--hadtriedfortheimpossible,as
hewasdoing.Heshiveredalittleatthesenseofsuchkinship.
But gradually a luminous point emerged out of the enveloping fog.
"Newspapers won't help you," Frenside had said; and Vance was suddenly
aware that the dictum chimed with his own deep inward conviction. It had
always seemed to him that newspapers, as he knew them, were totally
unrelatedtoliteratureashehadalwaysdreamedofit,andashenowknewthat
itexisted.YetwasFrensideright--washehimselfright?Everyonealwayssaid:
"Nothinglikenewspaperworkasatrainingifafellowwantstowrite.Teaches
younottowastetime,togostraighttothepoint,toput
thingsinabrightsnappywaythatwon'tborepeople...."Ugh,howhehated
allthequalitiesthuscommended!WhatanewspapermanlikeBuntyHayes,
for instance, would have called wasting time seemed to Vance one of the
fundamentalneedsofthecreativeprocess.Hecouldnotimagineputtingdown
onpaperanythingthathadnotrisenslowlytothevergeofhisconsciousness,
thathadnottobefishedforandhauledupwithinfiniteprecautionsfromsome
secret pool of being as to which he knew nothing as yet but the occasional
leap,deepdowninit,ofsomethingalivebutinvisible....AndthisFrenside,
whomhedid notlike,whosemanneroffendedhim,whose viewsawokehis
instinctive antagonism, had yet, in that one phrase, summed up his own
obscurefeeling."Buckledownandwrite";yes--hehadalwaysfeltthattobe
theonlyway. But to do it a fellow must be quiet, must have enough to eat,
must be fairly free from material anxieties; and how was he to accomplish
that? He didn't know--but he was so grateful for the key word furnished by
Frenside that nothing else seemed much to matter; not the disparagement of
hispoems,theshrugathisnovel,ortheassumptionthathisaspirationswere
boundtobeexactlylikethoseofanyotheryoungfoolwhopresentedhimself
toaneditorwithafirstbundleofmanuscript.Hewalkedslowlybacktohis
roominghouse,uncertainwhattodonext,butfeelingthatatleastthedarkness
wasnottotal.
Hisfirstimpulsewastogothroughallhisaccumulatedpapers,toreseethem
in this new faint ray. He skimmed over the pages of his novel, found it
shapeless, helpless--more so even than he had feared--and remembered
anothertonicphraseofFrenside's:thecurt"Ithoughtso,"inreplytoVance's
confession that he was attempting a novel, and then the injunction: "If ever
youtryashortstorysenditalong."Whatapityhehadn'ttriedone,insteadof
this impossible unwieldy novel! And then, as he sat there, fumbling with
fragmentsofdeadprose,hishandlitonadozentypedpages,clippedtogether,
andalittlefrayedattheedges.He'dforgottenhehadthatwithhim...."One
Day"--the thing he'd written in a kind of frenzy, after his fever, when he
couldn't find his father's revolver. How long ago all that seemed! There had
beenweeks when he couldn't have lookedatthosepages, could barely have
touchedthem;andnowhewasturningonthemaneyealmostasobjectiveas
GeorgeFrenside's....
You couldn't call it a short story, he supposed. It was just the headlong
outpouring of what he had felt and suffered during those few hours--like a
fellowwho'dbeenknockeddownandrunovertryingtotellyouwhatitfelt
like. That was all. But somehow the sentences moved, the words seemed
alive--if he'd had to do it again he didn't know that he'd have done it very
differently.Itdidn'tamounttomuch,butstillhefeltasifitwashisown,not
theworkoftwoorthreeotherfellows,likethenovel.Asudden
impulseseizedhim:hewrappedupthemanuscript,addressedittoFrenside,
puthisownnameandaddressbelow,andcarriedthepacketbacktotheoffice
ofTheHour.Hehadn'tthecouragetogoinwithit,butslippeditintotheletter
boxandwalkedaway.
Threedaysafterward--thelastbuttwoofhisweek--hecameinoneafternoon
andfoundthataletterhadbeenpushedunderhisdoor.Onthecornerofthe
envelope was stamped The Hour. Vance's hands turned cold. He stood for a
fewsecondslookingatthatportentousname;thenhetoreopentheenvelope
andread:"DearSir,TheeditorofTheHourasksmetosaythathewillbeglad
totakeyourstory,'OneDay,'thoughTheHourdoesnotusuallypublishshort
stories. I enclose a cheque for $50." There followed a vague secretarial
signature, and underneath, untidily scrawled with a blunt pencil: "Better go
back home and write more like it. Frenside." Vance stood a long time
motionless,theletterinhishand.Atfirsthewasnotawareofanysensationat
all;andwhenitdidcomeitseemedtoostrongforjoy.Itwasmoreasifhehad
beenbuffetedinacrowdandhadthewindknockedoutofhim,ashehadon
thedaywhen he and Upton fought their way totheCrans'carafter the ball
game....
"I want to go and see the ocean," he suddenly said aloud. He didn't know
where the words had come from, but the force of the impulse was
overwhelming.PerhapshehadunconsciouslyrecalledFrenside'ssneer:"Ever
seentheocean?NotevenfromConeyIsland?"Well,hethought,hewasgoing
toseeitnow....Heputthechequeinhispocketandwentoutagain.With
thattalismanonhisbreasthefeltstrongenoughtoconquertheworld.What
mightitnothaveboughtforhim?Well,firstofallitwasgoingtobuyhimone
ofthegreatestthingsintheuniverse....HewentroundtoFriendshipHouse,
found the friendly manager, and got his cheque cashed. Then he decided to
leave the money in the manager's safe; it was no use risking it in crowded
trains. And he meant to take a train that very minute, and get down to the
Atlanticshorebeforeitgrewdark.Hedidn'tknowwhere--butheasked,and
themanagersaid,smiling:"Why,we'vegotacampofourowndownonLong
Island, not far from Rockaway. It's pretty near empty in the middle of the
week;youmightaswellgodownthere,Iguess.I'llgiveyoualinetotheman
incharge--youlookasifagoodswimwouldpickyouup...."Hescribbleda
card."Don'tforgettocomeforyourmoney,though,"hesaid.
ItwasnearlysunsetwhenthetrainreachedthelittlestationwhereVancewas
to get out. He saw only a cluster of frame houses among scrubby sandhills,
and a skyline crisscrossed by telephone and telegraph wires, like the view
acrossthefieldsfromCrampton.Themanatthestationsaidthe
campwassomewaydowntheroad.Vancefollowedtheindication.Theroad,
littlebetterthanasandytrail,ranlevelforabit,driftedpastacolonyofshacks
andbathhouses,andthenliftedhimtoaridgeofsandandlefthimfacetoface
with the unknown. Before him more sandhills, sparsely tufted, sloped down
imperceptibly to bare sand. The sand spread to a beach which seemed to
stretch away right and left without end, and beyond the beach was another
surface,anunknownelement,steelgrayinthecloudytwilight,andbreathing
andheaving,andswayingbackwardandforthwithashreddingandrendingof
whiteyeastymasses ceaselesslytorn offfromthatsmoothimmensity.Vance
stood and gazed, and felt for the first time the weight of the universe upon
him.Eventheopenskyoftheplains,bendingtothehorizononallsides,and
traceriedandbuttressed,upaloft,withthegreatstructureofthestars,seemed
lesshuge,lessimmemorial,lessincomprehensibletothefinitemindthanthis
expansewhichrestednotyetmovednot,exceptinarhythmicswayasregular
asthemarchoftheheavens.Vancesatdownonahillockandgazedandgazed
as twilight fell; then in the last light he scrambled across the dunes to the
sands,reachedthestonesofthebeach,kneltclosetothatlongincomingcurve,
andplungedhishandsintoit,asifindedication.
BOOKIV
XVI
HaloSpearinaworldofshiftingstandards,hadalwaysheldfasttoherown
values.Suchandsuchthingswereworthsomuch!agreatdeal,perhaps;yet
nomorethansomuch.Itwasgood,forinstance--necessary,indeed--tohavea
comfortable amount of money; enough to grease the machinery of life, to
prevent recurring family wrangles, or worse; but even for that there was a
pricenotworthpaying.Thatpricewasherself;herpersonality,asthepeople
aboutherwouldhavecalledit;thesomethingwhichmadeHalo
Spearandnoother.Ofthatsomething,sheoftentoldherself,shewouldnever
surrendertheleastjot.
Looking back now, after three years, she remembered old Tom Lorburn's
perturbedfaceasshelefttheWillowswithhim,thedaythelossofthebooks
wasdiscovered.Shehadsaidtoherselfthen:"Thisbusinessaboutthebooksis
going to make him change his will," and, immediately afterward: "Well, it
won't make me change my mind about Lewis." For even if her hopes of an
inheritance were gone she was not going to offset the disappointment by
marryingLewisTarrant.Shewassureshewouldmakelifeunbearabletoany
manshemarriedforsuchareason,andLewiswastoogoodafellowtobeher
victim.Itwasapity,ofcourse--forCousinTomdiddiewithinafewmonths,
anddidchangehiswill,leavingtheWillowstoadistantrelativewhoknewno
morewhattodowithitthanhehad;andtheblowwasabadoneforMr.and
Mrs.Spear.Lorrybeingpredestinedtoruinthem,theyhadalwaysregardedit
as Halo's rôle to restore their fortunes; they would never have asked her to
sacrificeherhappinesstodoso,buttheytoldher(alwaysinreferencetoother
couples)thatwhenitcametomarriageacommunityoftastesandinterests--
well, such as there was between herself and Lewis, say--was the only
guaranteeofhappiness,oncethefirstrapturewasover."Iknow,butIwantthe
firstrapture,"Halowouldanswertheminwardly;andtoLewisshesaidwitha
smilingfirmness:"IfImarriedyouyou'dwanttomurdermeinamonth."
Yetshehadbeen hiswifefornearlythreeyearsnow,andthey hadnotonly
sparedeachother'slives,butarrivedatsomekindofmutualunderstanding,so
that,hadshebeensuddenlycalledontoleaveherhusband'sroofandreturnto
theprecariousexistenceatEaglewoodshewouldhavehesitated,andnotonly
onhisaccount.Habithadwounditsbenumbingwebabouther,andshewasno
morethegirlshehadbeenthanhewasthemanshehadimagined....
"Happy?"shesaidonedaytoFrenside,withherquicksmile."No,I'venever
been happy; but I'm content. And being content is so jolly that I sometimes
thinkIcouldn'thavestoodbeinghappy...."
"Ah,it'sadestructiveexperience,"Frensideagreed.
Notforamomentwouldshehaveadmittedtoanyoneelsethathermarriage
hadnotbroughtherhappiness,fornoonebutFrensidewouldunderstand,as
shedid,thatlifemaybe"strengthenedandfedwithouttheaidofjoy."Butthe
reliefofsayingittohimwasdeep;ittookheroutofaworldofsuffocating
dissimulations into a freer air. She looked at him curiously, at his bumpy
tormentedforeheadabovethethickbluntnoseand
ironic mouth, the eyes barricaded by his eternal glasses, the heavy shabby
figure."Yethespeaksabouthappinessasifhe'dknownit--pooroldGeorge."
Herimpulsewastosay:"Oh,Frenny,tellmewhatit'slike!"Butthoughshe
hadoncegoneupsoboldlytoeverynewriddlesheshrankfromthisone."I
supposeweeachofushaveourdifferentSphinx,"shethought.Shehadgrown
acoward,nodoubt.
"Life'ssofullofthingsanyhow,isn'tit?"shecontinuedevasively."I'veoften
thoughtIshouldn'thavetimetocrowdinanythingmore...evenhappiness..
.."Shelaugheda little,andgettingup out of her deep armchair by the fire
walkedacrossthelibraryandstoodlookingoutatthesweepoftheEastRiver
glitteringfarbelowthroughtheautumnhazeinitsforestofroofsandspires
and chimneys. The Tarrant flat was high up in one of the new buildings
overhangingthemightyprospectonwhichNewYorkhadtillsolatelyturned
itsback.Awidelowwindowfilledalmostthewholeeasternwalloftheroom;
theotherthreewereofasobergrayish-greenwherevertheywererevealedby
a break in the bookshelves. Halo Tarrant's association with the sturdy old
houseatEaglewoodhadsavedherfromthepassingextravagancesoffashion.
Herroomdependedforitscharacterontheviewfromitswindow,thebooks
on its walls, and the friendly grouping of its lamps and chairs. It seemed
neithertoexcludeexperimentnorinviteit,buttoremainoutside thefluxof
noveltylikesomecalmnaturalobject,treeorfield.
Frenside said nothing more, and Halo wandered across the room, pausing
absentlytostraightenapapercutteronthebigtableladenwithbooks;thenher
glance travelled to an oil sketch of her husband which Vuillard had done in
Paris,thefirstyearoftheirmarriage:justthehead,halfaverted,withthethin
sensitive nose, the dissatisfied mouth--dissatisfied still--and that excessive
fairnessofhairandcomplexionwhichsingledTarrantoutinanygroup,even
beforethedelicacyofhisfeatureswasperceptible.Halostoodinfrontofthe
picture,herhandsclaspedbehindher,retravellingthewaythatheandshehad
come.
"Well?--"Frensidequeried.
She turned back to him. "I was thinking how lucky it is that The Hour
happenedtobeforsale,andthatIhadthenervetourgeLewistobuyit.It's
going to be exactly the kind of job he likes. I only wish you'd stayed on it,
Frenny."
Frensideshookhishead."Betternot.I'malwaysavailableasanadviser,ifhe
needsone.Butnewbloodallroundwaswhatwaswanted.Andnowwe'llsee-
-"
Halolookedupathimalittlesharply."See--?""Whathe'sgoingtomakeof
it."
Herlipsparted,asifonaquickretort;thentheyclosedagain,andwithaslight
shrugshedroppedbackintoherchair."Ofcoursehe'llmakemistakes--"
"Ofcourse.Butthat'ssometimesstimulating."
Sheinterrupted:"ThegreatthingforamanlikeLewis,withrathertoomuch
money,anddecidedlytoomanytalents,istocanalizeboth--isn'tit?He'snever
before been able to make up his mind, to find anything that entirely suited
him.Ibelievethisdoes;Ibelieveit'sgoingtogrouphisscatteredinterests,and
holdhimtohisjobasno...novaguesenseofdutywould...."
"Bless you, the sense of duty is prehistoric; even that idea of our first duty
being to ourselves, which seemed so mad and bad in the 'nineties, wouldn't
interestababynowadays.ButIdaresayTarrant'lltakehold--forawhile--"
"Ah, you underrate him!" Halo flashed out, rising again nervously. People
wereright,afterall, when they said Frenside's way of encouraging you was
likeadoctor'ssaying:"Nothingwillmakeanydifferencenow."
Butshewasvexedwithherselfassoonasthewordswerespoken.Sheheldno
briefforherhusband;shedidn'thaveto.EveryoneknewLewiswasbrilliantly
clever--even those who were put off by his indifference, his lack of
enthusiasm, recognized his superiority. "A fellow who'll make his mark, my
son-in-law," Mr. Spear described him, leaning back comfortably in an
armchairofthe cosylittleflatprovidedby Lewisforhisparents-in-law, and
puffingataCoronaofthethousandLewishadsenthimforChristmas.Being
abletoescapefromEaglewoodforthewintermonthshadsingularlysoftened
Mr.Spear'sviewofhumannature,andlentanaddedlustretohisadmiration
forHalo'shusband."Anyonewhodoesn'trecognizeTarrant'sabilityissimply
enviousof it, that's all. ..."Ah,how Halo loved her fatherforsayingthat!
PoorFrenside'scongenitallackofgenerosityalwayspreventedhispredicting
forothersthesuccesshehimselfhadmissed;butMr.Spear,nowthatheand
hiswifehadtheirownlittlenookinNewYork,andcouldgatheraboutthem
the dowdy middle-aged conformists whom Mrs. Spear still called
revolutionaries--Mr. Spear had become tolerant and even benignant. He still
wrotetothepaperstodenouncewhathecalledcryingevils,suchasthefact
thatthe consumption of whole wheatbreadwasnot made compulsory ("If I
maycitemyownhumbleexperience,"that
kind of letter always said), or that no method had been devised for
automatically disinfecting the tin cups attached to public fountains. ("An
instanceofthiscriminalnegligencemayactuallybefoundwithin a hundred
feetof my own door," was the formula in such cases--thus revealing to his
readersthatMr.SpearhadaNewYorkdoor.)Butallthiswasratherbywayof
aliteraryexercisethantorelieveaburningindignation;nowthathislifehad
beenreshapedtohissatisfactionMr.Spearwasdisposedtoletothersdotheir
own protesting. "After all, there's something to be said for the constituted
authorities," he had been known to declare, smiling indulgently across his
daughter'sdinnertable;andifMrs.Spear'sshort-hairedsatellites(women,Mr.
Spearnowcalledthem,whohadbeensexuallyunderfed)hadnotbeenforever
challenginghimtotakeuphispenindenunciationofoneoutrageoranother--
"youreallyoughtto,Mr.Spear,withyourmarvellouswayofputtingthings"--
theinkwouldhavecoagulatedinhisWaterman.
ProsperityhadaffectedMrs.Speardifferently.Ithadmadehermoreindignant,
moreagitated,moreemaciatedlybeautiful;whilearisingplumpnessrounded
Mr. Spear's waistcoat his wife's garments hung more slackly from her
droopingshouldersandrestlessarms.Whiletherewassomuchmiseryinthe
world, how was it possible, she asked her daughter, for those in happier
circumstancesnottostraineverynerve...?
"Butyoustrainedyourstoafrazzlelongago,mother;andtheworldstillgoes
oninitsoldjuggernautway."
"Halo!IhatetohearyouechothatcheapcynicismofGeorgeFrenside's.As
long as I have a voice left to protest with I shall cry out against human
savageryinallitsforms."Mrs.Spearhadjustdiscoveredfromahumanitarian
leafletthatthetruffle-huntingpigsofsouthwesternFranceperformtheirtask
in muzzles, and are never permitted the least morsel of the delicacies they
unearth.("Well,Ishouldhopenot,"murmuredMr.Spear,unfoldinghisnapkin
attheapproachofacrab-mayonnaise,"andanyhow,intherawstateinwhich
thepooranimalswouldeatthem,they'dprobablytastelikeoldindia-rubber.")
AndGeorgeFrensideadded,withamaliciousglintbehindhisglasses:"What
seemstomeagooddealworseisthefateofthecormorantsintheChinaseas.
...YouknowtheChinesetrainthemtocatchfish...carry'emontheirwrists
likehawks.. . ." "Well?"Mrs. Spear gasped, in anguished anticipation. "No
cormorant is ever allowed to taste a fish--much less a mayonnaise of crab,"
Frensidegrinned,withaside-glanceatHalo.
TherecollectionofthelittlesceneflashedthroughHalo'smindasshelooked
upatVuillard'ssketchofherhusband.Itwasforthesakeofher
parents that she had married him; she was too honest to disguise it from
herself;andwhenevershesawMr.Spearsippinghischampagnecriticallybut
complacently, and Mrs. Spear, in black velvet and old lace, bending her
beautifulshortsightedeyesaboveanappetizingdish,orliftingthemtoheaven
inprotestatsomenewlydiscoveredcrueltytopigsorcormorants,Halosaidto
herself that it had been worthwhile. For Mrs. Spear's woes had become as
purelya luxury as Mr. Spear's cigarsandchampagne.They could treat their
indignations like pet animals, feeding them on the fat of the land till they
became too bloated to be disturbing; and Halo, looking back on the hard
rasping years when her parents' furious concern for the public welfare had
been perpetually fed by personal worries and privations, reflected that there
could hardly be a pleasnter life than that of retired reformers. "And at least
now,"sheadded,"they'vestoppedborrowingfromLewis;I'malmostsurethey
have."
The extent of their borrowings (discovered suddenly, at the precise moment
when she had decided to break her engagement) had in fact been the direct
causeofHalo'smarriage.Tarranthadsteppedintothebreachmoreoftenthan
she had guessed; had not only bought back the books so mysteriously lost
fromtheWillows,buthadhelpedLorrySpeartostartasatheatricaldecorator,
besidesfillingintheever-wideninggapintheSpearbudget.Andhehaddone
itallsoquietlythatwhenthefactsbecameknowntoHaloherfirstmovement
of exasperation was followed by an unexpected feeling of admiration. If he
werelikethat,shethought,sheoughttobeabletolovehim;atanyrate,she
knew she could never willingly cause him any pain. And on this basis they
weremarried....
The years that followed had represented the interest on her husband's
advances.Hewasfartoomuchofagentlemantoletherfeelthatshe,orany
of hers, was in his debt; but there the fact loomed, the more oppressively
becauseofhisstudiedignoringofit.Shehadgraduallyfoundoutthatithad
not altered his real nature; but it had imposed on her the obligation to view
him always in the light of an accidental magnanimity. It was dreadful, she
thought in her rebellious moods, to know exactly what one would have to
thinkofone'shusbandtillone'sdyingday.Buttheserebellionswererarewith
her.Everymorningshetoldherselfanewthathehadbeenincrediblygenerous
to her people, and that the only return she could make was to throw herself
with ardour into every new scheme which attracted, and reject with
promptitudeanyenterprisewhichceasedtopleasehim.Someday,perhaps,he
would find his line--and then people would see, then even Frenside would
havetoconfess...
PoorFrenside!Itwasnatural,shethought,thathisowninabilitytosticktoa
job should add venom to his comments on the instability of others.
"EverythingItouchturnscoldonmyhands,"hehadonceconfessed;andthat
hadbeenthefateofTheHour.Afteradazzlingstartithadgrownquerulous,
faddish, and then dull; one could feel the creeping chill of inanition as one
turneditspages.Subscribersfelloff,andtheowners,discouraged,offeredthe
paperforsale.Frenside,understandinghisownshareinthefailure,resigned,
and went back to free-lance articles for various newspapers and reviews. It
was nonsense, he said, his acting as literary adviser to anybody, when his
honestadvicewouldalmostalwaysbe:"Tothewastepaperbasket."TheHour
languishedalong,unreadandunbought,foranotheryear;thenitoccurredto
Tarranttopickitupasabargain,andoncepurchaseditacquiredinhiseyes
the importance inherent in anything that belonged to him. "Funny--perhaps
what I was really meant for was to be an editor," he said to his wife, with
depreciatorysmilewhichdisguisedsuchafervourofself-esteem."Notavery
dazzlingcareer--IsupposeImighthavelookedratherhigher;butitmaygive
methechancetomakemyselfknown...."
"Ofcourse,Lewis;it'swhatI'vealwayswantedforyou."
"It is? You've thought--?" he began with his look of carefully suppressed
avidity.
"Why,foramanwhowantsahearing,andhassomethingnewtosay,Ican't
imagineabetterchancethananopenarenalikeTheHour."Shecouldreeloff
things like that as long as he wanted them; and besides, she did think, had
forced herself to think, after his various unsuccessful experiments, first in
architecture,theninpainting,thatlettersmightreallybehisfield.Notcreative
work, probably (though she knew he aspired to be a novelist), but literary
criticism,literaryhistory,perhaps--providedhehadthepatiencetopursueany
lineofinvestigationfarenough."Ifonlyhehadn'tanymoney!"shesometimes
found herself reflecting, confronted with the bewildering discovery that
abundancemayhampertalentasmuchasprivationdoes."Butwhatistalent
made of, then?" she wondered. "Is it really like some shoddy material that
can'tstandeitherrainorsun?"
Frenside still mused by the fire. "Yes; I shouldn't wonder if Tarrant made
something out of The Hour, if only he gets the right people for the routine
work."ItwasunusuallygenerousofFrensidetosaythat;yetHalotingledwith
resentment.
"Youmeanhe'llneverhavetheperseverancehimself?"
"Mydearchild,don'tmakemeoutworsethanIam.ImeanexactlywhatI
say.Everybusinessenterpriseisbuiltondrudgery--"
"Yes,andhe'stoobrilliant.Heisbrilliant,Frenny."Shestoodlookingather
old friend with confident insistent eyes; it always fortified her faith in her
husbandtoimpressitonothers.AndreallyshedidbelieveinTheHour,andin
whatheandsheweregoingtomakeofit....
The door opened, and there he was, slender, distinguished, handsomer than
ever,shethought,ashereyeschallengedthecalmfaceunderwhichsheknew
suchahungerforapprobationburned.
"Hallo, Frenside--" Lewis Tarrant nodded to his wife and strolled up to the
fireplacewithhisunhurriedstep."Coldasthedeviloutdoors."Hebentover
the flame, stretching his nervous transparent hands to it. ("With hands like
that,"Halomused,"whyisn'theapoet?")
Tarrant dropped into an armchair near the tea-table. "No--a cocktail, please.
I'mfrozentothemarrow.Cursedclimate!"
She handed him the cocktail, and in passing laid her hand on his shoulder.
"You'retired,Lewis--you'vebeenoverworking."Itdidhergoodtobeable,in
allsincerity,torebukehimforthat!
"Well,itishardwork--straighteningthingsout.ButIthinkIbegintoseemy
way."Hespokewiththecoldsparkleofvoiceandfacewhichwashisnearest
approach to enthusiasm. "By the way, though--it wasn't all just hacking and
hewing. I've made a find." He picked up a bundle of papers he had thrown
down,andextractedfromthemacopyofTheHour.
"Whataboutthis,Frenside?Ineverheardofitbefore--itmusthavecomeout
whilewewerehoneymooning,Halo."
Thewordstartledher,onhislips.Wasitallsolongagothatheseemedtobe
speakingadeadlanguage?Sheshookoffthechillandputoutherhandforthe
review--anoldnumber,asLewissaid,batteredfromlongkickingaboutinthe
office. "What? Oh--this: 'One Day'? A story, is it?" She wrinkled her brows
overhershortsightedeyes."Lewis!Why,it'sbythatboy:theTracys'cousin.
Theone..."Shebrokeoff,andfeltthecolourrisingtohertemples.Vance
Weston--shehadnotthoughtofVanceWestonsincehermarriage.Yetwhata
scorehehadagainsther!Shehadneverbeenabletoacquitherselfofthat;if
everthechancetodosoarose,howgladlyshewouldseizeit!Shebentabove
thepage, curious,excited,withthelittle halfarticulatemurmursofthe born
reader."HowqueerthatI
neverheardofthis....Yes,itcameoutthewinterwewereinEgypt."(Her
chronology of her married life was more topographic than sentimental.) She
lookedupatFrenside."Isupposehesentittoyou,Frenny,afterthattimeyou
methimatEaglewood?"
Frenside seemed to be groping in a heap of dusty recollections. "Yes--sure
enough.Itcomesbacktome.Heturnedupattheofficeoneday,andunloaded
alotoffoolpoetry."(Halorememberedtoo,andwinced.)"Then,whenItold
him the stuff wouldn't do, he pulled this out. Let me see: yes, that's it. I
thoughtitbetterthanmostthingsofthekind;andanyhowtheboylookedso
starvedandscaredthatItookit.Neversawhimbutthatonce,aswellasIcan
remember."
Halo was no longer listening: she had plunged again into her reading. Yes;
Frenside was right--the poetry, though it had possibilities (or seemed to, by
that mountain pool at sunrise) was a poor parrotlike effort compared to this
bluntprose,almosttelegraphicinitsharshdirectness.Shereadon,absorbed.
"Well--?"Lewisqueried,triumphant.
She came back to him from a long way. "What a strange thing it is--how
terrible!"
"Fine,though?Thatfellowoughttobewatched.Don'tyouthinkso,Frenny?"
Frenside rose, throwing his cigar end into the embers. "Well, it's a toss-up.
Thisistheearlymorning'slice-of-life';outoftheboy'sownexperience,most
likely. Wait and see what happens when he tackles something outside of
himself.That'swherethetestcomesin."
Haloasked:"Didn'thesendanythingelse?"andFrenside,rummagingamong
morefaded memories, thought that, yes, he had--articlesandstories,allraw
stuff,unusable.Thatwasthegeneralrule;anychapwithaknackcouldusually
pulloffonegoodthingatthestart....
"Thisshowsmorethanknack."
Frensideshrugged,saidhehopedso,wishedthemgoodbye,andshuffledout
into the hall, getting grumblingly into his overcoat with the help of Tarrant,
who came back rubbing his hands and smiling. "Well, my dear, there's your
great critic: couldn't even remember when and how he'd got hold of a thing
likethis,orwhethertheboyhadsenthimanythingelseas
good! No knowing what we've lost--or how to get hold of him now. Not a
trace of his address on the books. The way that paper was run--!" He sank
down by the fire with a dry wrinkling of lips and nostrils. "I rather flatter
myselfthingswillgodifferentlynow..."
"Oh,Lewis!Butofcourse--withyourflair."
Hestrokedhis slight moustache lingeringly, using his hand, assheknew, to
maskasatisfactionthatmighthaveappearedtoocrude."Well,Isupposeone
hastheinstinctoronehasn't...."hemurmured.
"I'm so glad, dear, that you have it. You saw at once what this was worth,
didn't you? But we must get at the boy--a young man now, I suppose," she
mused. "How long ago it all seems! I wonder how we can run him down?
Why,throughtheTracys,ofcourse!I'llwritetoMrs.Tracynow."
Shestartedupandwenttothewritingtable,pullingoutpaperandpenwithan
impatience doubled by her husband's. "Oh, we'll wire," he said in a tone of
authority; "I'll get it off at once. We want something from him for our New
Yorknumber."Andshethought,deepinherself:"Nothingwillbetoogoodfor
Vance Weston now that he's Lewis's own discovery," and then tingled with
shameatherlucidity.Shedashedoffthetelegramatherhusband'sdictation,
andwhileTarrantwentouttosendit,droppeddownagainintoherarmchair.
"Ifmyboyhadlived--"shesaidtoherself,coveringunderthatellipticalsweep
of regret all the things she might have judged differently, all the things she
mighthaveforbornetojudge,ifbetweenherandherhusbandtherehadbeena
presence, warm and troublesome and absorbing, to draw them closer yet
screenthemalittlefromeachother.
XVII
OnerawautumneveningwhenVancecamein,tiredanddispirited,fromthe
officeoftheFreeSpeaker,hiseldersister,Pearl,whowasalwayspryingand
investigating,bounced out intothehall with: "Here's aletterfor you from a
NewYorkmagazine."
Vancefollowedherintotheoverheatedroomwherethefamilywerewaiting
forMr.Westontogointosupper.Mr.Westonwasgenerallylatenowadays:
real estate was in a slack phase at Euphoria, and he was always off
somewhere, trying to get hold of a good thing, to extend his activities,
especially to get a finger into the pie at Swedenville, which had recently
startedanunforeseenboomofitsown.
Thereseemedtobeagreatmanypeopleinthebrightlylitroom,withitslarge
pink-mouthedgramophoneonatablewithacrochetlacecover,itsgold-and-
graywallpaperhungwiththe"MonaLisa"(Mae'scontribution),"TheLightof
the World" (Grandma's), and the palm in a congested pink china pot on a
stainedoakmilkingstool.
Onchillyeveningstheradiatorwasthecentreofthefamilylife,andtheseat
nearestitwasnowalwaysoccupiedbyaveryoldmanwithayellowishwaxen
face and a heavy shock of black hair streaked with gray, who sat with a
helpless left arm stretched on the shawl that covered his knees, and said at
intervals,inaslowthickvoice:"Feels...good...here.
..after...Crampton...."
Grandpa and Grandma Scrimser had moved into Mapledale Avenue after
Grandpa's first stroke. The house out at Crampton was too cold, and the
Nordic help, always yearning for Euphoria or Swedenville, could not be
persuadedtowaitonaparalyticoldmanandhisunwieldywife.LorinWeston
hadacceptedthechargewithoutamurmur:hewasagreatrespecteroffamily
ties. But the presence of the old couple had not made things easier at
MapledaleAvenue.Itwasanever-recurringmiserytoMrs.Westontohavethe
preciseroutineofherhouseholdupsetbyMrs.Scrimser'sdisorderlyways;she
did not mind nursing her father nearly as much as "picking up" after her
mother. But the crowning grievance was the invasion of her house by
Grandma'sfollowers--allthe "inspirational"faddists, theprophets, seers,and
healers who, having long enjoyed the happy-go-lucky hospitality of the
Scrimser table, now thronged to Mrs. Weston's, ostensibly to pray with
GrandmaandoverGrandpa,butalwaysmanaging,asMrs.Westonremarked,
todropinroundaboutmealtimes.
Grandpa's stroke had come within the year after Vance's return to Euphoria.
Vance had not seen much of Mr. Scrimser during the months preceding the
latter's illness. Going out to Crampton was something the young man still
shrankfrom.EverythinginEuphoria,whenhereturnedtherefromNewYork,
seemed so small and colourless that he strayed about in it like a ghost in
limbo;butthefirsttimehewalkedouttoseehisgrandmother,theoldnausea
caught him as he passed the field path leading to the river; and when his
grandfathermountedthestepsoftheporchwhereVanceandMrs.
Scrimserweresitting,stiff-jointedbutjauntyasever,hishattiltedbackfrom
his black curls, his collar rolled away from his sinewy throat, the boy felt
himselfhardentoastone.. ..Andthen,oneeveningattheFreeSpeaker,a
voiceatthetelephonehadsummonedVancetotheElkington--andthereinthe
glaringbarlolledtheoldman,likeamarionettewithitswirescut,proppedon
thesofatowhichtheyhadhurriedlyraisedhim....
TheaccidentdidnotreawakenVance'sloveforhisgrandfather,butiteffaced
thehate.Ifthiswaswhatafewyearsbroughtusto,thesternnessofthemoral
lawseemedcruellyoutofproportiontothebrevityoflife;heacknowledged
the grinning truth of the old man's philosophy. Hitherto Vance had never
regretted having written, or sold for publication, the tale into which he had
pouredallhisyouthfulindignation;butnow,thoughhefeltsurethatnooneat
EuphoriahadeverheardofTheHour,orwouldhaveconnectedhistalewith
anyactualincident,yethewouldhavebeengladtowipethosepagesoutof
existence, and still more glad to blot from his memory the money they had
broughthim....
"Well,Iguessyourfather'sgoingtobelaterthanevertonight,andthatSlovak
girlsaysshewon'tstayanotherweekifshedon'teverknowwhattimetodish
upformeals,"Mrs.Westonmurmured,lookingupfromhertowel-hemmingas
hersonentered.
"Well, Vance's got a letter from a New York magazine," Pearl exulted,
disregardinghermother.
Mrs. Scrimser looked yearningly from the corner where she sat by her
husband, the last number of Spirit Light on her knee. ("What your
grandmother wastes, subscribing to all those come-to-Jesus papers, is
something that passes me. She could hire a nurse with the money," Mrs.
Westonfrequentlylamentedtoherchildren.)
"Oh,Vanny,openitquick!"hisgrandmotherbesought."Iwonderifit'sfrom
Spirit Light? I was just reading to Grandpa about a twenty-five dollar prize
they're offering for a five-hundred-word appreciation of Jesus Christ, to be
sentinbeforethelastofthemonth.Whatarewenow?"
Nooneanswered,andVancewentuptothelampandopenedhisletter.Below
theletterheadofTheHourarushofwordspouredoutathim."Anotherstory
onthelinesof'OneDay'...Reviewinnewhands...editorwouldliketo
have first call on anything you may turn out during the coming year . . .
Liberalterms...firststoryifpossibleintimeforJanuarynumber...wantsto
knowifanychanceofyourbeinginNewYorkwithin
fewweekstoconsiderpossibilityofpermanentconnectionwithreview..
."
Anotherstoryonthelinesof"OneDay"--thatwaswhatfirststruckhim.He
readthephraseoverseveraltimes;then,involuntarily,heturnedandglanced
at the marionette with its wires cut that cowered in the armchair by the
radiator.Howstrangeitwas,Vancemused--thatpoorcreaturehadfirsttaught
him the meaning of pain, and out of the terrible lesson the means of
deliverancehadcome!
His future . . . here was his future secure. And the people at The Hour
regretted having lost sight of him for so long--and the review was in new
hands! He glanced back at the letterhead, and saw: "Editor: Lewis Tarrant."
But surely that was the blond fellow who was always hanging about Miss
Spear and going off in the motor with her? Correspondence between Paul's
Landing and Mapledale Avenue had ceased after a somewhat acrimonious
exchange of letters at the time of Vance's departure from the Tracys'; since
thenhehadheardnothingofthehouseholdatEaglewood.Twoorthreecurt
notesfromtheeditorialofficeofTheHour,rejectingthetalesandessayshe
had sent at Frenside's suggestion, had been the last of his communications
withNewYork;andfornearlytwoyearsnowhishorizonhadbeensoshutin
byEuphoriathathewasbeginningtofeelasifhehadneverleftthere.
"Is it about the Spirit Light competition, Vanny?" Mrs. Scrimser asked; and
Pearlejaculated: "Fathermaybelate, but I guesshe'llbe here before Vance
condescendstotellus!"
"Tell us what?" Vance's father questioned, banging the front door shut, and
droppinghisoutergarmentsintheingle-nookbeforejoininghisfamily.
"HisnewsfromNewYork,"Pearlsnapped.
LorinWestoncamein,castinghiscautioustiredeyesabouttheroom.Hisson
suddenlynoticedhowmucholderandthinnerhelooked;hisdapperbusiness
suithungonhim."Well,what'syournews,son?"
"I'vegotajobinNewYork,"Vanceannounced,hardlybelievingthatthevoice
heheardwashisown.
"Feels...good...here...after...Crampton...."themarionettecrooned
fromitscorner.
OnthetraintoNewYorkVancehadthesamesenseofdetachmentaswhenhe
had gone thither three years before. Again it was as though, in leaving his
home,hetookhiswholeselfwithhim,likeatelephonereceiverunhookedand
carried on a long cord into another room. The years at Euphoria had taught
himsomething,hesupposed;hefeltinfinitelyolder,feltmature,"hardboiled"
as the new phrase was: he smiled with pity at the defenceless infant he had
beenwhenhemadehisfirstassaultonthemetropolis.
But how had the process of maturing been effected? He had felt himself an
alien from the moment of his return to Euphoria; there had been no
retightening of loosened links, no happy boyish sense of homecoming. He
couldimaginethatafellowmight feelthat,gettingbacktooneofthoseold
Lorburnhouses,soimpregnatedwithmemories,sothickwithtangibletokens
of the past; but his own recollections could only travel back through a
successionofnewhouses,eachonealittlelargerandwithabetterbathroom
and a neater garage than the last, but all without any traces of accumulated
livinganddying:shellsshedannually,almost,likeacrab's.Heevenfelt,ashe
satinthespick-and-spancomfortofMapledaleAvenue,theincongruityofan
oldman'spresumingtodiethere."Seemslikethere'snopastherebutinthe
cemeteries,"hemusedoneday,lookingpityinglyathisgrandfather....
Andnowhewasgettingawayfromitagain,gettingbackintoanatmosphere
whichtohimseemedchargedwiththedustofages.WhenhehadbeeninNew
Yorkbeforehehadhardlynoticedtheskyscrapers,whichweremerelyhigher
thanthosehealreadyknew;butononeofhislastdaysbeforeleavinghehad
gonedowntoTrinityChurch,andslowly,wonderingly,hadroamedaboutthe
graveyard,broodingovernamesanddates....Theideathattherehadbeen
peoplesonearhisowndaywhohadlivedanddiedunderthesameroof,and
worshippedeverySundayinthesamechurchastheirforebears,appealedinan
undefinable way to his craving for continuity. And when he entered the
church,andreadtheepitaphsonthewallsabovetheveryseatswherethemen
andwomencommemoratedhadsat,itwaslikefeelingaheartbeatingthrough
thegravewrappingsofoneofthemummieshehadseeninthemuseum.The
oceanandOldTrinity--thosewerethetwogiftsNewYorkhadgivenhim....
Andnowhewasgoingbackfullofhopetotheplacewhichseemedtohave
becomehisspiritualhome.Thelongcoldweightofdiscouragementhadfallen
fromhimatthefirstwordofthesummonsfromTheHour.Thistimeheknew
hecouldmakegood.Neverinjournalism:hisexperienceonthe
Free Speaker had taught him that. If his father hadn't owned stock in the
newspaperVanceknewhecouldneverhavehelddownevenhisinsignificant
job there. But there was nothing to regret in all that. He was going to be a
writernow: a novelist.A New Yorkreview had opened itsdoorsto him; he
hadonlyto rereadtheeditorialletterforhisbrainto humwithnewprojects
and ambitions. "A big novel--I'll do a big novel yet," he thought; but
meanwhilehewouldgivethemalltheshortstoriestheywanted.Subjectswere
swarmingabouthim,opening paragraphs writing themselves on the curtains
ofhissleeper.Allnighthelayawakeinanecstasyofinvention,rockedbythe
rhythmofthetrainasifthegreatAtlanticrollersweresweepinghimforward
tohisfate.
ThismildNovemberdaywasalljewelledwithsunlightasVancepushedhis
wayoutoftheGrandCentral.Gripinhand,hewasstartingfortherooming
housewherehehadlodgedbefore.Hedidnotknowwhereelsetogo;butno
doubtatTheHourhewouldfindsomeonetoadvisehim.Meanwhilehewould
justdrophisbags(theywerebulgingwithmanuscripts),andgetaquickwash-
upbeforepresentinghimselfattheoffice.Itwasnearlyteno'clock,andhehad
wiredannouncinghisvisitforthatdayateleven.
ItwasthedayafterThanksgiving,andthehugestationwashummingwiththe
arrivalsanddeparturesofweekendcrowds.Outside,closetothecurb,arow
of long "rubberneck" cars was drawn up, and with an absent eye Vance
watchedaband of sightseers, mostly girls, scrambling into one of them. He
thought he had never seen so many happy unconcerned faces: certainly the
mereairofNewYorkseemedtowakepeopleup,makethemsparklelikethe
light on this balmy day. Vance, always amused by thronged streets and
pleasurableactivities,lingeredtowatch;andashestoodtherehesawagirlin
aclose-fittingbluehatspringintothecarinfrontofhim.Hermovementwas
so light and dancing that no term less romantic could describe it. She was
absorbedintoagigglinggroup,andunderthebluebrimVancecaughtonlya
glimpseofcroppedstraw-colouredhairandafacesotranslucentthatthethin
browneyebrowslookeddarkasthevelvetcrescentsonabutterfly.Hissense
ofbouyantrenewalseemedtofindembodimentinthismorningvision,andhe
forgothisbag,forgotTheHour,forgotevenhishealthymorninghunger.All
hewantedwastoknowiftherewasaseatleftinthatcar.Amaninalonglight
ulster,aletteredbandonhiscap,stoodnearthedriver'sseat,givingordersor
instructions.Vancetouchedhisarm."See
here--" The man turned, and Vance was face to face with Bunty Hayes, the
formerreporterofthePaul'sLandingpaper.
BuntyHayeshadnotchanged;hewasthesametrimtight-featuredfellowwith
impudenteyesandasmallmouthwithachildlikesmile;buthehadthickened
a little, and the black-and-gold lettering on his cap gave him an air of
authority.
"Say--why,ifitain'tVanceWeston!"heexclaimed.
IfanythingcouldhavetroubledVanceinhispresentmood,itwouldhavebeen
an encounter with Bunty Hayes. The name had only disastrous associations,
and he had always thought the man contemptible. But the tide which was
sweeping him forward could not be checked by anything as paltry asBunty
Hayes;andVance,withnomorethanamoment'shesitation,puthishandinto
theother's,andmadeoneofhisabruptplungestothepoint."Say--yougoing
forarideinthiscar?"
"Goingforarideinher?"Buntyechoedwithhiseasylaugh."Lookslikeasif
Iwas.Say,whyI'mthebarkerforher,sonny.ThoughtIwasstillupatPaul's
Landing,didyou,doingwrite-upsforthatcemeteryofapaper?No,sir,that
wasinthe farawayandlongago. IbeenshowingNewYorkfor nearlytwo
yearsnow.Hoprightin--gotacapacityload,butIguessthegirls'llmakeroom
for you. (I'm taking round Saint Elfrida's select boarding school, from
Peapack--yes,sir;sixfrontrows;bunchoflookers,ain'tthey?Primarilyanart
trip;wetakeintheLib'ry,theMetropolitan,theCathedralandthePalisades.)
Seehere,pilein,Vance;nevermindaboutyourgrip.
'Gainst the rules, I know; but shove it under the seat while the chauffeur's
lookingatherappendix.There--inyougo;thisrow.Say,there'sagirlatthe
otherendthat'llgiveyouasqueeze-innexttoher;there,theonewiththeblue
hat."
ThebarkercaughtVanceundertheelbowtolaunchhimonhisway;andthen,
ashemovedforward,calledafterhimstentorianly:"Say,Vance,Iwantyouto
meetmyfeeancee;yes,that'sherinthebluehat.LauraLou,meetMr.Weston.
...Gee,Vance,butain'tyouLauraLou'scousin?Say,well,ifIdidn'tclean
forgetyouandme'dgotacquaintedattheTracys'....LauraLou,here'syour
cousinVanceWeston,comeallthewayfrom Illinois to see you. Now then,
ladiesandgentlemen,allaboard,please!"
Vancefoundhimselfclimbingpastarowofexposedpinkknees.Aflutterof
girlishexclamationsgreetedhim,andheslippedintoacrackbetweenastout
Jewish-lookingyoungwomaninrimlessglassesandthegirlunderthe
blue hat, whose flexible young body seemed to melt against his own as she
maderoomforhim.
"Laura Lou!" he exclaimed as the car swayed out into the street. He could
hardlybelievethatthislittlefacewiththepalerosymouthandthedelicately
tracedeyebrowscouldbethatofthesulkyflapperofPaul'sLanding.Yethe
rememberedthatoneeveningwhenshecame in for supper, late and a little
flushed, in a faded yellow muslin the colour of her hair, he had thought her
almost pretty. Almost pretty--crude fool that he'd been, craving only such
coarsefareasFlossDelaneyand'SmeraldaCran!Timehadrefinedhistasteas
ithadhiscousin'sfeatures;andhelookedatherwithneweyes....
"Vance!"shesaid,inhershydrawlingvoice,butwithoutatraceofshynessin
herowneyes,whichrestedonhimwithasortofaffectionatecuriosity.
The eyes too were different; instead of being like blurred gray glasses they
were luminous as spring water; and they met his with full awareness of the
change.Itseemedasif,withoutself-consciousnessorfatuity,sheknewherself
lovely and was glad, as simply as a flower might be. The sight absorbed
Vance'ssenses;hehardlyheardwhatshewassaying,wasconsciousonlyof
her nearness, burning and radiant, yet so frail, immaterial almost, that she
mightvanishatarashwordormotion.
"Why,Vance,isn'titfunny?Ididn'tknowyouwereinNewYork,"shesaid;
andhethought: "Iusedtothinkher cheekbonestoohigh;andnow thelittle
shadowunderthemiswhatmakesherlooklikethosemarbleheadsofGreek
priestesseswiththesmileundertheirlids...."(Hehadseenphotographsof
theminsomebookonancientart,intheEuphoriacollegelibrary.)
"It'sthreeyearssinceIwashere;you'regrown-upnow,aren'tyou?"hesaid;
and she conceded: "Why, I s'pose I am," with a laugh that made her mouth
breakopenonherteethlikeapinkpodonpearlyseeds.
"Threeyears--"heechoed;andsuddenlyherememberedherbendingoverhim
ashelayin the hammock, on his first evening at the Tracy's, and snatching
fromhisbuttonholethesprayoflilachehadfoundonhispillowthatmorning.
"Why, it was you that put the lilac on my pillow before I was awake!" he
exclaimed,thewordsbreakingfromhimbeforeheknewit.Hewaslookingat
herintentlyandshe did not avert her gaze; but a light like a rosyreflection
stolefromherthroattohertemples."Ofcourseitwas,"hetriumphed."Why,
you'relikeatropicalshellwiththesunshiningthroughit,"hecried;andshe
answered:"Oh,Vance,youalwaysdidsaysuch
killing things. I'll die laughing if you don't quit. . . ." It was only when she
drew away her soft bare hand that he realized he had held it clutched ever
sincehehadpushedhiswaytoher....
"Thisvacantlotonyourright,"BuntyHayeswasbellowingasthecarrolled
upFifthAvenue,"wasformerlythesiteofSelfridgeB.Merry'sfive-million-
dollarmarblemansion,latelysoldtotheAmalgamatedSearchlightCompany,
who are about to erect on it a twenty-five-million-dollar skyscraper of fifty
stories, with roof gymnasium, cabaret terrace, New Thought church and
airplanelanding....TheartisticGothicchurchonyourleftistheReformed
Methodist...."
VancecaughtbackLauraLou'shandandpresseditinbothofhis."For
God'ssake...that'sallajokeaboutyourbeingengagedtohim,isn'tit?"
She cast down her lashes, which were of the same velvet texture as her
eyebrows,butadarkerbrown,thecolourofbrownpansypetals.Herhandstill
layconfidinglyinVance's."Why,IguesshekinderthinksIam...."shesaid.
"Oh,lethim!"criedVancederisively.HetookaquickglanceattheJewishgirl
in rimless glasses, saw that she had turned away to pass a box of Fuller's
marshmallowsdowntheline,andflinginghisarmaboutLauraLou,kissedher
fervently.
She paled a little and shrank back, but so submissively, with such an air of
leavingherselfonhislipseventhoughshewithdrewherown,thathethought
exultantly: "She knows she belongs to me," and had there been room in his
breastforany feelingbutraptureitwould havebeenpityforthetight-faced
youngmanbellowingthroughhismegaphone:"Wearenowapproachingthe
onlyremainingprivateresidenceonFifthAvenue,belongingtooneoftheold
originalsocietyleadersknownthroughouttheworldastheFourHundred."
XVIII
Thenextday,whenVancegotoutofthetrainatPaul'sLanding,theoldhorses
inthebroken-downcarry-allswerestillstandinginthestationsquare,shaking
theirheadsdespondently.
Hejumpedonboardapassingtrolleyandwascarriedoutofthetown.Atthe
footofafamiliarlaneoverhungbybaremapleboughshegotoutandbeganto
climbtotheWillows.LauraLouhadsaidshewouldbringthekeyofthegate
withher.Shecouldn'tlethimintothehouse,sheexplained:sincethetheftof
thebooks(whichhadbeenbroughtback,asshesupposedVanceknew)Mrs.
Tracy had kept the house key hidden away where no one could get it. But
Vancewasdeterminedatleasttoseethegardenandtheoutsideofthehouse
again,andthedaywassowindlessandmildthattheywouldbeabletositin
the sun on the verandah. He wanted to relive his first visit to the Willows,
whenhehadaccompaniedLauraLouandUpton,andhadlingeredspellbound
inthelibrarywhileLauraLou,herhaircoveredwithatowel, wentoffwith
Uptontodustandairtherooms.ThatdayVancehadhardlynoticedher,had
felt her presence only as that of a tiresome schoolgirl,butting in where she
wasn'twanted,likehisownsisters,PearlandMae--especiallyPearl.Andnow-
-!
Shewasatthegatealready;hecaughtsightofherthroughthebranches,inthe
powderygoldoftheautumnlight.Shewavedtohim,andopenedthegate;and
hefollowed herin. "No,youmustn't!" shewhispered,ashisarms wentout,
andadded,laughing:"Withalltheleavesoffthebushes--andthathiredman
around."
"Cursethehiredman!Can'twegoandtalkquietlysomewhere?"
He was looking at her as though to store up the sight against a coming
separation, and yet he knew already that he never meant to leave her again.
"Can'tIholdyourhand,atleast?"heasked,awedbysomethingsotenderand
immatureinherthatitcurbedhisimpetuousness.
"Oh,well--"sheconceded;andhandinhand,liketwochildren,theybeganto
walk toward the house. Barely screened by its tracery of leafless willows it
stood out more prominent and turreted than he had remembered; but if less
romantic, it still seemed to him as mysterious. Treading noiselessly on the
rain-flattenedyellowishgrasstheypassedaroundtotheotherfront,wherethe
projectingverandahandobliquelysetbalconies,clutchedinthebaregnarled
armsofthewistaria,stoodoutlikethetorsoofanoldLaocoön.
Afewoaksstillheldtheirfoliage,andtheevergreenclumpsstoodoutblue-
blackandsolid.Butthefalloftheleavesrevealed,attheendofa
path,a ricketytrellisedarbourwhichVance had neverbeforenoticed. "Let's
goandsitthere."Theycrossedthewetcobwebbylawnandenteredthearbour.
Theoldhiredmanwasnowheretobeseen,andVancedrewLauraLoutohim
andlaidhislipsonhereyelids."EversinceyesterdayI'vewantedtokissyour
eyes."Shelaughed underherbreath,andthey satclosetoeachother onthe
mouldybench.
"You never used to take any notice of me in old times," she said; and he
answered:"Iwasnothingbutablindpuppythen.Puppiesareallbornblind...
."Hewantedtolethiskissglidedowntoherlips,butsheputhimfromher.
The gentleness of her touch controlled him; but he whispered rebelliously:
"Why--why?"
Sheansweredthatallshehadpromisedwastocomeandtalkthingsoverwith
him,andhemustn'ttease,orshe'dhavetogoaway;andwhycouldn'ttheyjust
sittherequietly,whentherewassomuchtosayandsolittletime?Hehardly
heardwhatshesaid,buttherewasapowerinhersoftness--orinherbeauty,
perhaps--which held him subdued. "Your hand, then--?" "Yes." She gave it
back, with one of those smiles which made her mouth like the inside of a
flower.Oh,idlemetaphors!...
"Now tell me." And she told him how upset her mother had been when he
went away so suddenly ("She never meant you to, Vance--but she got
frightened. . . ."), and how surprised they were when the basket of flowers
with the dove was brought the next day, and how Mrs. Tracy had first been
angry, and said: "Is he crazy?" and then cried, and said: "But he must have
spentallthemoneyIgavehimback,"andthenbeenangryagainbecauseshe
wassosurehe'dbethecauseoftheirlosingtheirjobattheWillows--andthey
didloseit,andonlygotitbackafterMissHalohadintervened,andthebooks
werereturned, andoldMr. Lorburnhad been quieteddown again.("Butthe
dovewaslovely,Vance.I'vegotitovermylookingglass..
..")Andatthethoughtofthismiraculousrewardhehadtoclenchherhand
hardtokeep himself from warmer endearments. How littlehehaddreamed,
whenheboughtit,thatthedovewouldbeVenus'smessenger!
Shewentontosaythatthingshadbeenveryhardforatime,becausetheyhad
beenoutoftheirjobforsixmonths.Itwasn'tsomuchthemoney,thoughthey
neededthat too; he gathered thatMrs.Tracy'spride had been wounded, and
thatshehaddeclared,whenMissHalotriedtofixitup,thatitwasnouse,as
shewouldneverletherchildrengobacktotheWillowsiftheyhadforfeited
their cousin's confidence. But Miss Halo always somehow managed to put
things right, and had finally persuaded Mrs. Tracy to relent; and she had
continuedtohelpthemafterthat,andhadfoundafinesituationforUptonas
undergardenerwithsomefriendsofhers
whohada bigplaceatTarrytown.Soeverythingwas goingbetternow;and
she, Laura Lou, was at Saint Elfrida's School, at Peapack, for a six months'
course, to learn French and literature and a little music--because her mother
wantedhertobeeducated,likeherfather'sfolkswere....
LauraLouwasnotendowedwiththenarrativegift;onlybitbybit,inanswer
toVance'squestions(whenhewasnottooabsorbedinhertoputany)didshe
manage, in fragmentary communications, to bridge over the interval which
hadturnedthegawkygirlintothemiracleofyoungwomanhoodbeforehim.
Whenshewantedtohearwhathadhappenedtohimsincetheyhadpartedhe
found it even harder to tell his story than to piece hers together. While she
talkedhecouldspinaboutherasilkencocoonofrevery,madeoutofhersoft
drawl,thethrobofherhand,thefruitlikecurveofhercheeksandeyelids;but
whenhetriedtowithdrawhisattentionfromherlongenoughtoputhiswords
in order he lost himself in a blur. . . . Really, he said, nothing much had
happenedtohim,nothingthathespeciallyremembered.He'dbeenareporter
in the principal Euphoria newspaper, and hated it; and he had taken a post-
graduate course in philosophy and literature at the state college; but the
lecturerssomehowdidn'tgetholdofhim.Readinginalibrarywaswhatsuited
him,heguessed.(Herlasheswereplantedlikethedoublerowofmicroscopic
hummingbirdfeathersinaSouthAmericanembroideryhe'dseensomewhere.
...)ButEuphoriawasoveranddonewith;he'dgotajobinNewYork...a
job on a swell magazine, a literary review they called it,but they published
short stories too, they'd already published one of his, and wanted as many
moreashecouldwrite...andtheeditor,LewisTarrant,hadwrittentohimto
cometoNewYork....
"LewisTarrant!Buthe'stheoneMissHalomarried!"LauraLouexclaimed.
"Didshe?"Vanceabsentlyrejoined.Allhisattentionwasonherhandsnow;
hewasseparatingthefingersonebyone,liftingthemupandwatchingthem
drop back, as though he were playing on some fairy instrument. He hardly
noticedthementionofHaloSpear.
"Why,didn'tyouknow?Theyweremarriedtheyearyouwentaway,I
guess.Iknowitwaseversolongago."
"DoesitseemtoyoueversolongsinceIwentaway?"
"Oh,Vance,I'vetoldyouyoumustn't...orI'llhavetogo...."
Hedrewback,droppingherhands,andrestrictinghimselftothemoredelicate
delightoflookingather."What'stheuseoftryingtowritepoetry,whenshe
is?" he mused. Yet in another moment he was again seeking rhymes and
metaphorsforher.Hetriedtoexplaintohimselfwhatitwasthatkepthimthus
awestruckandsubmissive,asiftherewerealatentmajestyinhersweetness.
With that girl on Thundertop it had been different; the shock of ideas, the
stimulus of the words she used, the allusions she made, the sense of an
unknownworldofbeautyandimaginationwideningabouthimasshetalked--
allthishadsubduedhisbloodwhileitsethisbrainonfire.ButwhenLaura
Louspokeshebecameachildtohimagain.Hisallusionstohisliteraryplans
and ambitions filled her eyes with a radiant sympathy, but evoked nothing
moredefinitethan:"Isn'tthattoolovely,Vance?"Yethisfeelingforherwas
notthesensualhungerexcitedbygirlslikeFlossDelaney.Itwasrestrainedby
somethingnewinthistendercreature;asifthecontendingelementsofbody
andsoulweresoharmonizedinherthattolookatherwasalmosttoclaspher.
Buttheairgrewchilly;Vancenoticedthatshehadturnedpaler;shecoughed
onceortwice.Theinstinctofprotectionwokeinhim."Seehere,wemustn't
goonsittingheretillyoucatchcold.Where'llwego?Whydon'twewalkback
tothetowntowarmourselvesup,andhaveacupofhotcoffeebeforeIcatch
my train?" She assented, and they turned toward the gate. As Laura Lou
stoopedtothepadlockVancelookedbackyearninglyattheoldhouse."We'll
comehereoftennow,won'twe?"
The gate had closed on them, and Laura Lou walked on a few steps before
answering. "Oh, I don't know about coming again, Vance. I had hard work
gettingthekeyoutofMother'sdrawerwithoutherseeingme....Besides,I'm
nothereweekdays;I'matschool."
"Your mother can't object to our coming here after we're married," Vance
tranquillyrejoined.
"Married?"shestoodstillinthelaneandlookedathimwithwideincredulous
eyes.Herpalepinklipsbegantotremble."Why,howcanwebe,Vance?"
"Why can't we be, I'd like to know? I'll be earning enough soon." (He was
sincerelyconvincedofit.)"Seehere,LauraLou,IwanttobeginlifeinNew
York marriedto you.I'mcomingoutto tellyour motherandUptonaboutit
tomorrow.Youwon'tgobacktoschooltillMonday,willyou?CanIcomeout
earlytomorrow,andhavedinnerwithyou?"
Ashadeofapprehensioncrossedherface."Oh,Vancedarling--nottomorrow."
"Whynot?"
"Becauseit'sSunday,andSunday'sBunty'sday."Shemadethestatementwith
asortoftragicsimplicity,asafacttobeneitherdisguisednoreluded.
"Bunty'sday?" Wrathdescended on himlike a thunderclap."How dare you,
after this afternoon--how dare you speak to me as if you belonged to that
fellowandnottome?Don'tyouknowwe'reeachother'sforever,LauraLou?
Sayyoudo--sayyou'vealwaysknownit!"hecommandedher.
"Well,Iwasengagedtohim,"shemurmured,withhergentleobstinacy.
"If you were, you're not now. How could your mother ever have let you go
withafellowlikethatanyhow?ShethoughtpoorlyenoughofhimwhenIwas
withyou."
"Well,shedidn'tfancyhimatfirst;shethoughthewasabadcompanionfor
Upton. But you don't know how changed he is, Vance. He helped Mother
when she lost her job here; and it's him who's paying for my year at Saint
Elfrida's.Yousee,he'srealculturedhimself,andhewantsIshouldbecultured
too, so that by and by we can take those personally conducted parties to
Europeforoneofthebigtravelbureaus,andearnalotofmoney.That'swhat
first reconciled Mother to him, I guess, his being so cultured. She's always
wantedIshouldmarrysomebodyinthesameclassasFather's."
Vancestoodlisteninginatumultofangerandamazement.Hehadneverheard
hersayasmuchatonetime,andeverywordshespokewaspureanguishto
him.Hehadthesamesenseoftheworld'sessentialvilenessashadsweptover
himthatdaybytheCramptonriverside.Lifetastedlikecindersonhislips.At
lengthhisindignationbrokeoutinaburstofscatteredejaculations."He'sbeen
paying for you at school--that lowdown waster? Laura Lou, you don't know
what you're saying! Culture--him? In your father's class? Oh, God! You'd
make me laugh if it wasn't so sickening. . . . I'm coming back to see your
mothertomorrowwhetheryouwantmeornot--understand?AndifthatHayes
fellowwantstocometoo,lethim.I'llbetheretotalktohim.AndI'llworkday
andnighttillIpayhimbackwhathe'spaidyourmotherforyou.Andyou've
gottoleavethatschooltomorrow,LauraLou...doyouhearme?"
"No, no, Vance." Her little pale face had grown curiously resolute, and her
voicetoo."Youmustn'tcometomorrow--itwouldkillmeifyoudid.Youmust
givemetime...youmustdoasItellyou...."
"Whatareyoutellingme?ThatI'mnottoseeyoutillitsuitsthisgentleman's
convenience?Isthatit?"
Her head drooped, and there was a glitter of tears on her lashes; but in a
momentshelookedup,andhergazerestedfullonhis."Vance,ifyou'llgive
me your promise not to come tomorrow I'll promise to go and see you next
weekinNewYork.I'llslipoffsomehow....Becausenow,Vance,"shecried,
"whateverhappens,I'llnevermarryanybodybutyou--never,never,notevenif
wehavetowaitforeachotheryearsandyears."
Dizzywithjoy,hestoodlookingatherasifhewerelookingintothesun;then
hecaughthertohim,andtheiryouthandpassionflowedtogetherlikespring
streams. "Laura Lou . . . Laura Lou . . . Only we won't wait any years and
years,"hecried;foratthatmomentitreallyseemedtohimthatachievement
layinhishand.
XIX
ThreeyearsofmarriagehadnotbeenneededtoteachHaloTarrantthatwhen
herhusbandcamehometolunchitwasgenerallybecausesomethinghadgone
wrong.Shehadlongknownthatifhesoughtheroutatthathouritwasnotto
becharmedbuttobetranquillized,asamanwitharagingheadacheseeksa
pillowandadarkenedroom.Thisneedhadbeenlessfrequentwithhimsince
hehadboughtTheHourandstartedinontheexcitingtaskofreorganizingit.
Usuallyhepreferredtolunchneartheoffice,atoneoftheBohemianplaces
affectedbyFrensideandhisgroup;probablyitwasnotindifferenttohim,as
hemade his way amongthetables,to hear: "That'sthefellow who's bought
TheHour.LewisTarrant;tallfairchap;yes--writeshimself...."Everyform
ofexternalrecognition,eventhemostcasualandunimportant,wasneededto
fortify his self- confidence. Halo remembered how she had laughed when
Frenside, long before her marriage, had once said: "Young Tarrant? Clever
boy--but can't rest unless the milkman knows it." Nowadays she would not
havetolerated
such a comment, even from Frenside; and if she made it inwardly she
tempereditbyremindingherselfthatanexaggeratedcravingforrecognition
often proceeds from a morbid modesty. Morbid--that was what poor Lewis
wasatbottom.Shemustneverforget,whenshewasinclinedtocriticizehim,
thatherfacultyofrebounding,ofdrawingfreshenergyfromdiscouragement,
hadbeenleftoutofhisfinerorganization--forherownsupportshehadtocall
itfiner.
Andnow,ontheveryFridaywhenhewasexpectinghisnewdiscovery--the
Tracys' young cousin from the West--Tarrant had suddenly turned up for
lunch.Whenhiswifeheardhislatchkeyshesupposedhehadbroughtyoung
Westonbackwithhim,andshehadbeenpleased,andrathersurprised,sinceit
wouldhavebeen morelikehimtowant toparadehisnewfriend amonghis
colleagues. Possibly Weston had not turned out to be the kind to parade--
though his young poet's face and profound eyes had lingered rather
picturesquelyin hermemory.Still,itwasthree yearssincethey'd met,three
yearsduringwhichhe'dbeenreporteronasmalltownnewspaper.Perhapsthe
poetryhadnotsurvived....
Her husband came in alone, late, and what she called "rumpled-looking,"
thoughnooutwarddisorderwasevervisibleinhiscarefullybrushedperson,
andthesignsshereferredtolurkedonlyabouthismouthandeyes.
"Anylunchleft?Ihopethere'ssomethinghot--nevermindwhat."And,ashe
droppedintohisseat,andtheparlourmaiddisappearedwithhurriedorders,he
added, unfolding his napkin with a sardonic deliberation: "Well, your infant
prodigyneverturnedup."
Ah,howwellsheknewthatlawofhisnature!Plansthatdidn'tcomeoffwere
almostalwaysascribed(inallgoodfaith)toothers;andtheprodigywhohad
failedhimbecamehers.Shesmiledalittletoseehimsoridiculouslyruffled
bysosmallacontretemps."Geniusisproverbiallyunpunctual,"shesuggested.
"Oh,genius--"Heshruggedtheepithetaway.Shemighthavethattoo,while
shewasaboutit."Afterall,hemayneverdoanythingagain.Onegoodstory
doesn'tmakeasummer."
"No,andmediocrityisapttobeunpunctualasgenius."
"Unpunctual?Thefellownevercameatall.Fixedhisownhour--eleven.Iput
off two other important appointments and hung about the office waiting till
afterhalf-pastone.I'dratherplannedtotakehimroundtotheCaféJacquesfor
lunch.Ayoungfellowlikethat,fromnowhere,oftenthawsout
more easily if you feed him first, and encourage him to talk about himself.
Vanity,"saidTarrant,asthemaidapproachedwithasmoking dish, "vanity's
alwaysthefirstbuttontopress....Eggs?GoodLord,Halo,hasn'tthatcook
learntyetthateggsareslowdeathtome?Oh,well,I'lleatthebacon--What
else? A chopshecangrill?The inevitable chop! Oh, of course it'll do." He
turned to his wife with the faint smile which etched little dry lines at the
cornersofhismouth."Ican'tsayyou'veyourmother'sculinaryimagination,
Halo."
"No,Ihaven't,"sheansweredgood-humouredly;butatouchofacerbitymade
heradd:"Itwouldberatherwastedonadigestionlikeyours."
Herhusbandpaled alittle.Shesoseldomsaidanything disagreeablethathe
wasdoublyoffendedwhenshedid."ImightanswerthatifIhadbetterfoodI
shoulddigestbetter,"hesaid.
"Yes,and_I_mightanswerthatifyourprogrammeweren'tsolimitedIcould
providemoreamusingfoodforyou.ButI'dsooneradmitatoncethatInever
did have Mother's knack about things to eat, and I don't wonder my menus
bore you." It was the way their small domestic squabbles usually ended--by
herhalfcontemptuouslythrowinghimthesophewanted.
Hesaid,withthenoteofsulkinessthatoftenmarredhisexpiations:"Nodoubt
I'm less easy to provide for than a glutton like Frenside--" then, furtively
abstractinganeggfromthedishbeforehim:"It'sadamnednuisance,having
allmyplansupsetthisway....AndafellowIwashopingImightfitintothe
officepermanently...."
Halo suggested that perhaps the young man's train had been delayed or run
into--that perhaps at that very moment he was lying dead under a heap of
wreckage;butTarrantgrumbled:"Whenpeoplebreakappointmentsit'snever
becausethey'redead"--astatementherownexperienceboreout.
"He'ssuretoturn upthis afternoon,"shesaid,asone comfortsa childfora
deferredtreat;butthesuggestionbroughtnosolacetoTarrant. He reminded
herwithacertaintartness(forhelikedhertorememberhisengagements,ifhe
happenedtohavementionedthemtoher)thathewastakingthethreeo'clock
trainforPhiladelphia,wherehehadanimportantappointmentwithafirmof
printerswhowerepreparingestimatesforhim.Therewasnopossibilityofhis
returningtotheofficethatday;hemightevendecidetotakeanighttrainfrom
Philadelphia to Boston, where he would probably have to spend Saturday
morning,alsoonbusinessconnectedwiththereview.Hedidn'tknowwhenhe
was going to be able to see Weston--and it was all a damned nuisance,
especiallyastheyoungfool
hadgivennoNewYorkaddress,andtheyhadhopedtorushaWestonstory
intotheircomingnumber.
TimewaswhenHalo,asamatterofcourse,wouldhaveofferedtointerview
thedelinquent.Nowsheknewbetter.Shehadlearnedthatinsuchmattersshe
could be of use to her husband only indirectly. The very tie she had most
counted on in the early days of their marriage--a community of ideas and
interests--had been the first to fail her. She knew now that the myth of his
intellectual isolation was necessary to Tarrant's pride. Nothing would have
annoyed him more than to have her suggest that she might take a look at
youngWeston'smanuscripts."Ofcourseyoucould,mydear;itwouldbethe
greatest luck for the boy if you would-- only, you know, I must reserve my
independenceofjudgment.Andifyouweretoraisefalsehopesinthepoor
devil--let yourself be carried away, as I remember you were once by his
poetry--itwouldbeabeastlyjobformetohavetoturnhimdownafterward."
Shecouldhearhimsayingthat,andsheknewthatthesatisfactionofasserting
his superiority by depreciating what she had praised would outweigh any
advantage he might miss by doing so. "Oh, young Weston will keep," she
acquiescedindifferently,asTarrantgotuptogo.
Thedoorclosedon him, and she sat there with the golden afternoon on her
hands.Shesaidtoherself:"TherehasneverbeensuchabeautifulNovember--
"andherimaginationdancedwithvisionsofhappypeople,young,vigorous,
self-confident, draining with eager lips the last drops of autumn sunshine.
Alwaysintwostheywere,thepeopleshepictured.Itusednottobeso;she
hadoftenhadhersolitarydreams.Butnowthatshewashardlyeveraloneshe
was so often lonely. Lonely! It was a word she did not admit in her
vocabulary--butthesensationwasthere,coldandalittlesickening,gnawingat
therootsofherlife....Whatnonsense!Why,shewasactuallyrobbingpoor
Lewisoftheproudprerogativeofisolation!Asifagirlwithherresourcesand
herspiritshadn'talwaysmorethanenoughtopackthehourswith!Sheleaned
in the wide window of the library and looked over the outspread city, and
thoughthowwhenshehadfirststoodthereallitsmyriadpulsesseemedtobe
beatinginherblood...."AmItired?What'swronglately?"shewondered...
.ShouldshecallupthegaragewhereherChryslerwaskeptanddashoutfor
the night to Paul's Landing, where her family had lingered on over
Thanksgiving?Itwouldberatherjolly,arrivingatEaglewoodlongafterdark,
inthesharpNovemberair,seeingtheglitteroflightscomeoutfaraheadalong
theHudson,andentering,muffledinfurs,theshabbydrawingroomwhereMr.
andMrs.Spearwouldbesittingoverthefire,placidlydenouncingoutragesin
distant
lands....No,notthat...ItwassweettositinNewYorkdreamingof
Eaglewood;buttoreturntherenowwasalwaysapang....
She began to muse on the woods in late summer, her woods, when their
foliagewasheaviest,alreadyyellowingalittlehereandthere,withpremature
splashesofscarletandwinecolouronastill-greenmaple,likethefirstwhite
lockinayoungwoman'shair...OfdaysonThundertop,sunrisedipsinthe
forestpool,longhoursofdreamingontherockysummitabovetheHudson--
howbeautifulithadbeenthatmorningwhenshehadstoodtherewithyoung
Weston, and they had watched light return to the world with a rending of
vapours,astreamingofradiances,likethefirstbreakingoflifeoutofchaos!
"He felt it too--I could see it happening all over again in his eyes," she
thought; those eyes had seen it with hers. Perhaps that was why, when he
recitedhispoetrytoher,inspiteofhisshynessandhisdreadfuldrawl,shehad
fanciedsheheardtheauthenticnote....Hadshebeenmistaken?Shedidn't
know.ButsurelynotaboutthestoryLewishadbroughthometheotherday.
Shewassurethatwastherealthing;andshewasgladLewishadfeltittoo,
feltitatonce--shewasalwaysgladwhentheysawthingstogether.Perhapsthe
boywasgoingtobeagreatdiscovery;atriumphforLewis,atriumphforThe
Hour!Sherememberedthatassheleanedbackagainstthemossyedgeofthe
pool the pointed leaf shadows flickered across his forehead and seemed to
crown it like a poet's. . . . Poor little raw product of a standardized world,
perhapsnevertobethuslaurelledagain!...
Sheturnedandwanderedbacktothefire,gazing,asshewent,atthebooksher
ownhandshadarrangedand cataloguedwithsucheagercare."WhatI want
todayisthebookthat'sneverbeenwritten,"shethought;andthen:"No,my
child,whatyoureallywantisanobjectinlife...."Shewasgrimlyamusedto
find that she was talking to herself as so often, mentally, she talked to her
husband....
Oh,well--itwasnearlyduskalready;onemoredaytotickoffthecalendar;
and at five there was a concert at the Vanguard Club--something new and
exotic,ofcourse;she'dmislaidtheprogramme....Shewenttoherroomand
pulledouthersmartblackcoatwiththegrayfur,andthecloseblackturban
thatmadeherfacelooklongandnarrowandinteresting.Thereweresuretobe
amusingpeopleattheconcert....
Theconcertwasdull;theamusingpeoplewereasboringasonlytheamusing
canbe;Halocamehomelateandoutofsortstofindalong-distancefromher
husbandsayinghewasgoingtoBostonthatnight,andshewastonotifythe
officethathewouldnotreappeartillMonday....
Nextmorningsheranguptheofficeandgavehermessage;then,afterapause,
sheadded:"Bytheway,didMr.Westonturnupyesterday--VanceWeston,the
storywriter,youknow?"Yes;theyknew;theywereexpectinghim.Buthehad
notappeared,andtherehadbeennomessagefromhim.No;theyhadn'this
address....Shethought:"AfterallIwasafoolnottogoouttoEaglewood
last night." Another radiant day--the last before winter, perhaps! Why
shouldn'tshedashoutnow,justforafewhours?Atrampinthewoodswould
do her more good than anything. . . . But she lacked the energy to get into
country clothes and call for the Chrysler. . . . "Besides, very likely that boy
willturnup...."Notthatshemeanttoseehim;butshecouldatleastreportto
Lewisifhecalledattheoffice,andgivewhatevermessageheleft....Itwas
ratherpettyofLewis,shethought,nottohavetoldhertoseeyoungWeston...
.
Before twelve she rang up the office again. No; no sign of Weston; no
message.How veryqueer.. . .Yes, itwasqueer. ...Well,lookhere--that's
you, Mr. Rauch? Yes. Well, if he should turn up today after the office was
closed--supposing he'd forgotten it was a Saturday--would Mr. Rauch leave
wordwiththejanitortotellhimtocometoseeher?Yes,attheflat;she'dbein
alltheafternoon.HewasjusttobetoldtoaskforMrs.Tarrant.(Intheend,
Lewis would probably be grateful--though he'd never go as far as
acknowledgingit.)
"I think I'll try and do some painting," she said to herself as she hung up.
Lewishadfitteduparatherjollyroomontheroof--asortofworkshop-study,
inwhichhehadreservedacornerforhermodellingandpainting.Healways
encouragedherinthepracticeoftheartshehadhimselfabandoned,andwhile
gently disparaging her writing was increasingly disposed to think there was
"somethingin" her experiments withpaintandclay.Butitwas months now
sinceshehad attemptedeither.. ..Shemountedto theroofstudio,pulleda
paintingapronoverhershoulders,rummagedamongcanvases,fussedwithher
easel,andgotoutabunchofpaperflowerswhichshehadmanufacturedafter
reading somewhere that Cézanne's flowers were always done from paper
models."NowforaCézanne!"shemocked.
Whenever she could persuade herself to work she still had the faculty of
becomingengrossedinwhatshewasdoing,andthehourshurriedbyasshe
struggledwiththemysteryofmassandvalues.Atthatmoment,really,she
believedshewasontheeveoflearninghowtopaint."PerhapsLewisisright,"
shethought.
Just as the light was failing the maid appeared. There was a gentleman
downstairs--young gentleman, yes; his name was Weston. Halo dropped her
brushes and wiped her hands hurriedly. She had forgotten all about young
Weston!Butshewasgladthat,nowitwastoodarktopaint,hewasthereto
fillintheendoftheday.
Wouldshefindhimthesame?Orhadhechanged?Wouldshestillcatchthe
shadow of the laurel on his forehead? As she entered the library her first
impression was that he was shorter--smaller, altogether--than she had
remembered;butthenshehadlivedintheintervalwithamanofdominating
height.This youth--how young he stilllooked!--mether eyes on a level. He
had broadened a little; his brown hair with the slight wave in it had grown
darker, she thought. This was all she had time to note, for before she could
evengreethimhehadexclaimed:"Theremustbemorebooksherethanatthe
Willows!" Ah, how thatbroughthimback--that way of going straighttohis
object, dashing through all the customary preliminaries, yet so quietly, so
simply,thatitseemedthenaturalthingtodo.
Shelookedathimwithafaintsmile."Youcareforbooksasmuchasever?"
Insteadofansweringhesaid:"CanIborrowsomeofthese,doyouthink?I've
gottobuckledowntoworkatonce.Iseethey'reclassedbysubjects;ah,here's
philosophy...."Halfannoyed,halfamusedatbeingtreatedlikealibrarian(an
assistant librarian, she ironically corrected herself) she asked him if
philosophy were what he was studying, and he said, yes, chiefly; that and
Italian--soastobeabletoreadDante.
"Dante?"she exclaimed. "We lived inItalya good deal whenIwas a child.
PerhapsIcouldhelpyouwithDante."
Hisface lit up."Oh,could you? Say, could I comeroundevenings, three or
fourtimesaweek,andreadhimwithyouaftersupper?"
Alittletakenabackshesaidshewasnotsureshecouldbefreeasoftenasthat
in the evening. They went out a good deal, she and her husband, she
explained--tothetheatre,toconcerts...inabigplacelikeNewYorkthere
werealwayssomanythingstodointheevening.Sheforboretomentionthat
frequentdining-outwasamongthem.Couldn'the,shesuggested,comeinthe
earlyafternooninstead--shewasoftenfreetillfour.Butheshookhis
head,obviouslydisappointed."No,Icouldn'tdothat.I'vegottosticktomy
ownwritinginthedaytime."
Ah, to be sure--his own writing! That was what he'd come about, she
supposed,toseeherhusband?Herhusbandunluckilywasawayonbusiness.
HehadexpectedMr.Westonattheofficethemorningofthedaybefore;she
believedMr.Westonhadfixedhisownhourforcoming.Andherhusbandhad
waitedallthemorning,andhehadn'tturnedup.Hertonguestumbledoverthe
"Mr. Weston"; it sounded stiff and affected; she remembered having called
him "Vance" as a matter of course the first time she had seen him, at the
Willows. But something made her feel that she was no longer in his
confidence,orperhapsitwasthathehadsimplyforgottenwhatfriendsthey
hadbeen....Theideadisconcertedher,andmadeheralittleshy.Itwasasif
theirpartsintheconversationhadbeenreversed."Myhusbandexpectedyou,
butyounevercame,"sherepeated,gentlyreproachful.
No,hesaid,hehadn'tcome.He'dmeantto,thedaybefore,assoonashistrain
gottoNewYork;buthehadn'tbeenableto.Hestatedthefactsimply,without
embarrassment or regret, and left it at that. Halo felt a slight flatness, an
uncertaintyastohowtoproceed.
"Andthismorning--?"
"ThismorningIcouldn'teither.Icalledroundattheofficehalfanhourago,
butitwasclosed,andthejanitortoldmetocomehereinstead."
"Yes,Ileftword--asmyhusband'saway."
She suddenly perceived that they were still in the middle of the room,
exchangingtheirexplanationsontheparticularfigureoftherugwherehehad
been standing when she entered. She signed to him to take one of the
armchairs by the fireplace, and herself sank into the other. Twilight had
gathered in the corners of the bookwalled room, and the fire flowed more
deeplyfortheshadows.Hervisitorleanedtoit."Ineversawsuchabeautiful
fire--why,that'srealwood!"heexclaimed,andfellonhiskneesonthehearth,
asiftoverifythestrangediscovery.
"Ofcourse.Weneverburnanythingelse."
Thisseemedtosurprisehim,andheliftedhisfirelitfacetohers."Becauseit's
somuchmorebeautiful?"
"Becauseit'salive."
His gaze returned to the hearth. "That's so; it's alive. . . ." He stretched his
hands to the flame, and as she watched him she remembered, a few days
before, looking at Lewis's hands as he held them out in the same way, and
thinking:"Whyisn'theapoet?"
This boy's hands were different: sturdier, less diaphanous, with blunter
fingertips, though the fingers were long and flexible. A worker's hand, she
thought;amaker'shand.Shewonderedwhathewouldmake.
Thethoughtremindedheroncemoreoftheobjectofhisvisit--oratleastof
hersinsendingforhim,andshesaid:"Butyou'vebroughtalotofthingswith
you,haven'tyou?Ihopeso.Iwantsomuchtoseethem."
"Manuscripts?"Heshookhishead."No,notmuch.ButI'mgoingtowritealot
ofnewstuffhere."Hegottohisfeetandstoodleaningagainstthemantelshelf,
lookingdownatherwitheyeswhich,mortifyinglyenough,seemedtoinclude
herasmerelypartofthefurniture."Whatishereallyseeingatthismoment?"
shewondered.Aloudshesaid:"Butmyhusbandwroteyouweretobesureto
bringeverythingyou'dwritten.He'ssomuchinterested...weboththink'One
Day' so wonderful. I understood he'd asked you to bring all the stories and
articlesTheHourhadrejected.Youseeit'sinnewhands--myhusband's--and
hemeanstopursueamuchbroaderpolicy...."(Whywasshetalkinglikea
magazineprospectus?sheaskedherself.)
VanceWestonshookhishead."Ididn'tbringanyofthoseoldthings;
they'renogood.TheHourwasdeadrighttorefusethem."
"Oh--" she exclaimed, surprised and interested. It was a new sound in that
room--thevoiceofhonestself-disparagement!Shelookedathimwitharising
eagerness,notingagainthebreadthofhisforehead,andtheboldupwardcutof
thenostrils,andthestrongplantingofhisthickishnosebetweenthegrayeyes,
setsodeeplyandwidelyapart.
"Authors are not always the best judges. Perhaps what you think no good
mightbejustwhatacriticwouldadmire."
"No, that man Frenside's a critic, isn't he? Anyhow, the objections he made
wererighteverytime;Iknowtheywere."Hespokefirmly,butwithoutundue
humility. "My head's always full of subjects, of course. But he said I hadn't
accumulatedenoughlife-stufftobuild'emwith;andIknowthat'sright.AndI
knowIcandoalotbetternow.That'swhyIwanttogettoworkatonce."
Shefeltdisappointed,foreseeingherhusband'sdisappointment.Itwouldhave
givenhimsuchacutesatisfactiontoreverseoneofFrenside'sjudgments!"You
think by this time you've accumulated the life-stuff?" Her tone was faintly
ironical.
"Well,"hesaidwithsimplicity,"Iguesstimekeepsondoingthat--themonths
andyears.Theyoughtto.I'mthreeyearsolder,andthingshavehappenedto
me.Icanseefurtherintomysubjectsnow."
Shenoticedthelightingupofhiseyeswhenhebegantospeakofhiswriting,
and felt herself more remote from him than ever. She longed to know if he
rememberednothingoftheirtalksandsherejoinedmoregently:"Isupposeit
seemsalongtimetoyousinceyoureadyourpoemstomeonThundertop."
"Yes, it does," he said. "But you taught me a lot that day that I haven't
forgotten--and at the Willows too." He paused, as if groping for the right
phrase."Iguessyouwerethefirsttoshowmewhattherewasinbooks."
Thejoyouscolourrushedtoherface.Atlasthehadrecoveredthevoiceofthe
otherVance!"Ah,Iwasyoungthentoo,"shesaidwithawistfullaugh.
"Young? I guess you're young still." Relapsing into friendly bluntness, he
added:"I'monlytwenty-two."
"AndI'moldenoughtobeyourmother!"
"Say--Iguessyou'reabouttwenty-five,aren'tyou?"
Sheshookherheadwithamournfulgrimace."Youmustaddonewholeyear
tothat.Andsuchheapsandheapsof useless experience!I don't even know
howtoturnitintostories.Buttellme--haven'tyouatleastbroughtonewith
youtoday?"
"Astory?No,Ihaven'tbroughtanything."
Shesatsilent,inconceivablydisappointed."ShallImakeaconfession?I
hopedyou'dwantmetoseesomethingofyours...afterallourtalks...."
"Well,Ido;butIwanttobesureit'sgoodenough."Hemovedawayfromthe
fireandheldouthishand."Iwanttogorighthomenowandwritesomething.
Thisisgenerallymybesthour."
Sheputherhand reluctantly in his. "I suppose I mustn't keep you then. But
you'llcomeback?ComewheneveryoufeelthatImighthelp."
"Surely,"hesaidwithhisraresmile;shewasnotsureshehadeverseenhim
smile before. It made him look more boyish than ever. "I suppose I can see
yourhusbandonMonday?"headded.
Yes,shethoughthe could;butsherepeatedseverely thathemustbesure to
telephone and make an appointment. "Editors are busy people, you know,
Vance," she added rather maternally, slipping back into her old way of
addressinghim."Ifyoumakeanotherappointmentyoumustbesuretokeep
it--be on the stroke, I mean. My husband was rather surprised at your not
comingyesterday,atyournotevensendingword.Histimeis--precious."
He met this with a youthful seriousness. "Yes, I presume he would be
annoyed;buthewon'tbewhenI'veexplained.Icouldn'thelpit,yousee;Ihad
toseethegirlI'mgoingtomarrybeforeIdidanythingelse."
Halo drew back a step and looked at him with startled eyes. She felt as if
somethingshehadbeenrestingonhadgivenwayunderher."You'regoingto
marry?"
"Yes,"hesaid,withilluminatedeyes."That'sthereasonI'vegottogettowork
asquickasIcan.Iguessyourhusband'llunderstandthat.AndI'llbesuretobe
attheofficewhatevertimehewantsmeonMonday."
WhenhehadgoneHéloïseTarrantsatdownaloneandlookedintothefire.
XX
TarrantdidnotreappeartillMondayevening.Hehadtelephonedtohiswife
fromBostonthatonreturningtoNewYorkhewouldgostraighttotheoffice
ofTheHour,andthatshewasnottoexpecthimtilldinner.Theyweredining
aloneathome,andshehadalreadygotintoherteagownandwaswaitingto
hearhislatchkeybeforeringingfordinner.SheknewthatLewis,wholikedto
arrive late when he chose, also liked his food to be as perfectly cooked as
when he was on time; and she sometimes felt despairingly that only her
mothercouldhavedealtwithsuchaproblem.
Hecamein, hurriedandanimated,withthe slightglowwhichtookthe chill
fromhisfacewhenthingswereprospering."Allhewantstomakehimreally
handsome,"hiswifemused,"istohaverealthingstodo."
"Hullo,mydear;notlate,amI?Well,putoffdinnerabit,willyou?I'vebeen
on the jump ever since I left. Here's something to amuse you while I'm
changing."He threwamanuscriptintoher lap,andshe sawVanceWeston's
nameacrossthepage.
"Oh,Lewis!Heturnedup,then?"
"Hecondescendedto,yes--aboutanhourago.""Well--isitgood?You'vehad
timetoreadit?"
Littlenon-committalwrinklesformedthemselvesabouthissmileashestood
lookingdownather."Yes,I'vereadit;butI'dratherwaittillyouhavebeforeI
tellyouwhatIthink.Iwantyourunbiassedopinion--andIalsowanttojump
into my bath." The door closed on him, and she sat absently fingering the
pages on her knee. How well she knew that formula: "Your unbiassed
opinion."Whatitmeantwas,invariably,thathewasn'tsureofhimself,thathe
wanted someone else to support his view, or even to provide him with one.
Afterthathisjudgmentswouldringoutwithsuchauthoritythatpeoplesaid:
"OnegoodthingaboutTarrantisthathealwaysknowshisownmind."
Héloïsesentthecookadisarmingmessage--sheknewhowlongittookLewis
todress.Thenshedrewherarmchairtothelamp.Shewasaware,asshebegan
toread,ofacertainlistlessness.Wasitpossiblethatheropinionwouldnotbe
as unbiassed as her husband supposed? Had she felt an interest in Vance's
literarycareeronlybecauseshehopedtorenewheroldrelationwiththeeager
boy who had touched her imagination, to resume the part of monitress and
musewhichshehadplayedduringtheirlongsessionsattheWillows?When
he had said: "You were the first to show me what there was in books," her
contractedhearthadglowedandunfolded;when,amomentlater,hetoldher
hewasengaged,andshehadseenanunknownfigureintrudebetweenthem,
something in her shrank back, a door was closed. Well, why not? She was
lonely;shehad looked forward to the possibility of such comradeship as he
might give her. But though she had been fated to disappointment that was
surelynotareasonforfeelinglessinterestinhiswork....Asshetookupthe
manuscriptshetriedtoarouseinherselftheemotionshehadfeltafewdays
earlier,whenhereyeslitontheopeningparagraphof"OneDay."
The new tale was different; less vehement, less emotional, above all less
personal. Was he already arriving at an attitude of detachment from his
subject?Ifso,Haloknew,Frensidewouldseeafuturenovelistinhim."Ifhe
goesonretailingthesuccessivechaptersofhisownhistory,astheyhappento
him,they'llberawautobiography,oressaysdisguisedasnovels;butnotreal
novels.Andheprobablywon'tbeabletokeepituplong."Thatwouldbewhat
Frensidewouldsayinsuchacase.Itwashisunalterableconvictionthatthe
"me-book,"ashecalledit,howeverbrilliant,wasatbestsporadic,withlittle
reproductivepower.Well,the chargeofsubjectivitycould hardlybebrought
against the tale she had just read. Boy as he was, the writer had moved far
enough away from his subject to see several sides of it. And it was an odd
storytohaveinterestedabeginner.Itwascalled"Unclaimed,"andrelatedan
episodebroughtaboutbythesendinghomeofthebodiesofAmericansoldiers
falleninFrance.MyraLarcom,thebeautyofherprairievillage,hadbecome
engagedin1917toBenPurchase,aschoolmateandneighbour.BenPurchase
waskilledatthefront,andMyrabecametheheroineaswellasthebeautyof
GreenLick,whichhappenedtohavenootherfallensontomourn.Whenthe
government offered to restore its dead soldiers to their families for burial,
Myra of course accepted. Her Ben was an orphan, with no relations near
enough to assume the expense of his translation; and besides, she said, she
wouldneverhaveallowedanyoneelsetohavetheprivilege....Butthedead
heroeswereslowinreturning.Monthspassed,andbeforetherewasanynews
of the warrior's approach, another hero--and alive--had come back and won
her.ItappearedthatherengagementtoBenPurchasehadbeenalast-minute
affair,theresultofamoonlightembracethenighthestarted;indeed,shewas
no longer very sure that there had been an actual engagement; and when at
lengthhisbodyreachedNewYorktherewasnoonetoclaimit;andnooneto
pay for its transport, much less for the funeral and gravestone. But Tullia
Larcom,Myra'seldersister,hadalwaysbeensecretlyinlovewithBen,though
hehadnevergivenheraglance.Shewasaplaingirl,apredestinedoldmaid,
thedrudgeandbuttofthefamily.Shehadputbyalittlemoneyasthevillage
seamstress,butnotmuch--thereweresomanydemandsonher.Anditturned
outtobeanexpensivebusiness--aterriblyexpensivebusiness--tobringhome
andburyadeadhero.Andthelongeryoulefthiminthecareofhisgrateful
governmentthe moreexpensive itbecame.. .."Unclaimed" wasthesimple
and unsentimental relation of how Tullia Larcom managed to bring Ben
Purchase'sbodybacktoGreenLickandgivehimagraveandaheadstone....
When Halo finished reading she had forgotten about her husband, forgotten
about the cook, forgotten even about her own little emotional flutter over
VanceWeston....AllherthoughtswerewithTulliaatBenPurchase'sgrave..
..
"Howdidheknow...howdidheknow?"shemurmuredtoherself.Andthe
factthathedidknowseemedwarrantoffutureachievement.
"Halo, are you never coming?" her husband's voice called from the dining
room."Youseemtoforgetthatahardday'sworkmakesafellowhungry..
.."
Atdinnerhewentintoallsortsofdetailsabouthisnewprintingcontract,and
his interviews in Boston, where he had gone to secure various literary
collaborations.AllthathesaidwasinterestingtoHalo.Shebegantoseethat
The Hour would bring a new breath of life into her world as well as her
husband's.Itwouldbeexcitingtogetholdofthebuddinggeniuses;andonce
shehadletLewisdiscoverthem,sheknewtheywouldbehandedovertoher
to be tamed and amused. She had inherited her mother's liking for the
companyofcleverpeople,peoplewhoweredoingthingsandmakingthings,
and she saw the big room in which she now spent so many solitary hours
peopled by a galaxy of new authors and artists, gathered together under the
bannerofTheHour.
"IfonlynobodycallsitasalonLewiswon'tmind,"shethought.
TherewassomuchtohearandtosaythatVanceWestonwasnotmentioned
againtilldinnerwasoverandtheyreturnedtothelibrary.Tarrantlithiscigar
andsettleddowninhisownparticulareasychair,whichhadabroadshelffor
hiscoffeecupandashtray."Well,howdoesitstrikeyou?"hesaid,noddingin
thedirectionofthemanuscript.
"Oh, Lewis, you've discovered a great novelist!" She prided herself on the
tactfulness of the formula; but enthusiasm for others was apt to excite her
husband'ssuspicions,evenwhenitimpliedpraiseforhimself.
"Novelist? Well--we'll let the future take care of itself. But this particular
thing--"
"Ithinkit'sremarkable.Thesimplicity,theunselfconsciousness...."
"H'm."Hepuffedathiscigarandthrewbackhisheadinmeditation."Tobegin
with,warstoriesareadruginthemarket."
Sheflashedback:"Whose market?" and he replied, with a hint of irritation:
"You know perfectly well that we can'taffordtodisregard entirelywhat the
publicwants."
"Ithoughtyouweregoingtoteachitwhatitoughttowant."
Asthisphrasewastakenfromhisownprospectusitwastoounanswerableto
bewelcome,andhisfrowndeepened."Littlebylittle--certainly.Butanyhow,
doesn'titstrikeyouthatthisstory--whichhasitspoints,ofcourse-
-is...well,ratherlackinginrelief?Atrifleold-fashioned...humdrum?The
verytitletellsyouwhatit'sabout."
"And you want to have it called 'What Time Chronos?' or 'Ants and
Archangels'?"Shebrokeoff,rememberingtheriskofaccusinghimofwanting
anythingbuttherarestandhighest."OfcourseIknowwhatyoumean...but
isn'tthereanotherpointofview?ImeanforareviewlikeTheHour?Whynot
try giving your readers the exact opposite of what all the other on-the-spot
editorsarestrainingtoprovide?Somethingquiet,logical,JaneAusten-y...
obvious,almost?Areactionfromtheuniversalparadox?Attheverymoment
whenevenHomeandMotherisfeedingitsmillionreaderswithanovelcalled
JerksandJazzes,itstrikesmethatthenewestnotetosoundmightbethevery
quiet--somethingbeginning:'Intheyear
1920thereresidedintheindustrialcityofP----awealthymanufacturerofthe
nameofBrown....'That'soneofthereasonswhyI'vetakensuchafancyto
Vance'sstory."
Adroitlyasshehadcanalizedherenthusiasm,shedidnotexpectanimmediate
response. She knew that what she had said must first be transposed and
becomehisown.He laughedat hertirade,andsaidhe'd makea noteofher
titlesanyhow--theyweretoogoodtobelost;butthefactremainedthat,forthe
opening number of The Hour under its new management, he thought they
oughttohave something rather more showy. But he'd think it over ...he'd
told Weston to come back in a day or two. "Queer devil--says he wrote the
thing white hot, in forty-eight hours after getting here; must be about ten
thousandwords....Anditjogsalongsosoberly."
Thebellrang,andHalosaid:"ThatmustbeFrenny."Frensidewasincapable
of spending an evening alone. His life of unsettled aspirations and
inconsecutivework made conversation a necessitytohim as soon as he had
shakenoffthedailytask,andheoftendriftedintositwithHaloforanhour
afterhiscluborrestaurantdinner.
Heenteredwithhisusualdraggingstep,stoopingandsomewhatheavier,but
withthesamelightsmoulderingunderthethicklidsbehindhiseyeglasses.
"Hallo,Lewis--didn'tknowyouwereback,"hegrumbledasTarrantgotupto
welcomehim.
"There's a note of disappointment in your voice," his host bantered. "If you
were led to think you'd find Halo alone I advise you to try another private
enquiryman."
"Would,iftheyweren'tsoexpensive,"Frensidebanteredback,settlingdown
into the armchair that Tarrant pushed forward. "But never mind--let's hear
aboutthenewHour.(Whynotrechristenitthat,bytheway?)Haveyoucome
backwithanargosy?"
"Well, I've done fairly well." Tarrant liked to dole out his news in guarded
generalities. "But I'm inclined to think the best of my spoils may be here at
yourelbow.RememberhowstruckIwasbythatstory,'OneDay,'bytheboy
fromtheWestwhoseotherthingsyouturneddownsounmercifully?"
"Notunmercifully--lethally.Whatabouthim?"
"OnlythatIratherbelievehe'sgoingtomakepeoplesitup.I'vegotsomething
ofhisherethatstrikesanentirelynewnote--"
"Another?"Frensidegroaned.
Tarrant's lips narrowed; but after a moment he went on: "Yes, the phrase is
overworked.ButIdon'tuseitintheblurbsense.Thisboyhashadthenerveto
go back to a quiet, almost old-fashioned style: no jerks, no paradoxes--not
evenafraidoflingeringoverhistransitions;why,eventhetitle..."
Halo,mindfulofFrenside'sexpectationofawhiskeyandsoda,roseandwent
intothe dining room to remindthemaid.She reflected, not ill-humouredly,
that it would be easier for Lewis to get through with the business of
appropriatingheropinionsifshestayedoutofhearingwhilehewasdoingit;
andshelingeredafewminutes,musingpleasurablyovertheinterestoftheir
editorialventure,andofthepartVanceWestonmightbegoingtoplayinit.
She had believed in him from the first; and her heart exulted at the thought
thathewasalreadyfulfillinghispromise.
"IfhekeepsuptothisstandardhemaybethemakingofTheHour;andwhen
hefindshimselfanimportantliteraryfigurehe'lltakeadifferentviewofhis
future. We're not likely ever to hear of his engagement again," she thought,
irresistibly reassured; and she decided that she must manage, as often as
possible,tokeepaneveningfreefortheirDantereadings.WhenLewiswent
tohismen'sdinnersitwouldbeeasy....
Asshere-enteredthelibrarysheheardFrenside'sgrufflaugh,andherhusband
saying:"Damnedcheek,eh?Justtoldmeinsomanywordshecouldn'tcome
totheofficethatdaybecausehehadtogoandseehisgirl...
.Seemsthepoordevil'sgoingtobemarried;andwhodoyousupposeshe
is?Why,oneofthosedown-at-the-heelTracysatPaul'sLanding....Halo,my
dear,didyouknowyouweregoingtohaveyournewgeniusforacousin?"
XXI
"Wherearewegoing?You'llsee,"Vancesaidwithaconfidentlaugh.
He stood with Laura Lou on the doorstep of a small gingerbread-coloured
house in a rustic-looking street bordered with similar habitations. Her bare
handlayonhissleeve,andthegoldbandonherfourthfingerseemedtocatch
andshootbackallthefiresofthemorning.
It was one of those windless December days when May is in the air, and it
seemsstrangenottoseegrassspringingandbudsbursting.Theruttystreetlay
goldenbeforeVanceandLauraLou,andas they cameout of the Methodist
minister'shousetheyseemedtobewalkingstraightintothesun.
Vancehadmadeallhisplans,buthadimpartedthemtonoone,noteventohis
bride.Thereligiousceremony,itwastrue,hadbeenagreedonbeforehand,as
aconcessiontoherprejudices,andtoherfearofhermother.WhenMrs.Tracy
learned of the marriage it must appear to have been performed with proper
solemnity. Not that Vance had become irreligious; but, since his elementary
course in philosophy had shown him that the religion he thought he had
invented was simply a sort of vague pantheism, and went back in its main
linestothedawnofmetaphysics,hehadlost
interestinthesubject,orratherinhiscrudevisionofit.Whathewantednow
wastolearnwhatothershadimagined,farbackinthebeginningsofthought;
and he could see no relation between the colossal dreams and visions amid
which his mind was moving and the act of standing up before a bilious-
looking man with gold teeth, in a room with a Rogers statuette on the
sideboard,andrepeatingafterhimapatterofwordsaboutGodandLauraLou-
-andhavingtopayfivedollarsforit.
Well, it was over now, and didn't much matter anyhow; and everything to
comeafterwasstillhissecret.LauraLouhadnotbeeninconvenientlycurious:
shehadbehavedlikeagoodlittlegirlbeforethedooropensontheChristmas
tree.Itwasenoughforher,Vanceknew,tostandtherelookingupathim,her
handonhisarm,hisringonherfinger;fromthatmomenteverythingshewas,
or wanted, was immersed and lost in himself. But his own plans had been
elaboratelyworkedout;hewasinthestateoflucidecstasywhennomaterial
detailseemstooinsignificanttobewovenintothepatternofone'sbliss.
"Come,"hesaid,"there'sjusttimetocatchthetrain."Theyhurriedalongthe
stragglingstreetsofthelittleLongIslandtown,andreachedthestationasthe
lastpassengerswerescramblingtotheirplaces.Theyfoundtwoseatsatone
endofthecar,wheretheycouldsit,handlockedinhand,whilethetrainslid
throughinterminableoutskirtsandfinallyreachedanopenregionoftreesand
fields.Forawhileneitherspoke.LauraLou,herheadslightlyturnedtoward
thewindow,waswatchingthelandscapeslipbywithawide-eyedattention,
sothatVancecaughtonlythecurveofhercheekandthelightshiningthrough
the curls about her ear. There was something almost rigidly attentive in her
lookand attitude, as though she wereatranslucentvessel so brimming with
happinessthat she feared tomoveor speak lest itshouldoverflow.Thefear
communicateditselftohim,andastheysatthere,handinhand,hefeltasif
theywerebreathlesslywatchingamagicbirdpoisedjustbeforethem,which
the least sound might put to flight. "My dove," he thought, "we're watching
mydove...."
At length she turned and said in a whisper (as if not to frighten the dove):
"Mother'llcomehomesoonandfindtheletter."
Hepressedherhandmoretightly.Theletterwastheoneshehadwrittentotell
Mrs. Tracy that she was not going to marry Bunty Hayes--that she would
alreadybemarriedtoVancewhenhermotheropenedtheletter.Shehadbeen
utterlyunabletofindwordstobreakthenews,andVancehadhadtotellher
whattosay.Inthenotehehadputahundred-dollarbill,onwhichwaspinned
aslipofpaperwiththewords:"OnaccountofB.Hayes'sloan."Fortheidea
ofthethousand-dollarloan,whichBuntyHayes
hadmadetopoorMrs.TracytoenablehertosendLauraLoutoschool,wasa
torturetoVance.TheHourhadpaidtwohundreddollarsfor"Unclaimed,"and
hehadinstantlyenclosedhalftheamountinLauraLou'sletter.Itwasperhaps
notexactlythemomenttointroducethequestionofmoney;butVancecould
suffer no delay. He hoped to wipe out the debt within two or three months;
then the last shadow would be lifted from his happiness. Meanwhile it had
tranquillizedhimtodowhathecould.
"Oh,look--thesea!"criedLauraLou;andthereitwas,beyondscruboakand
sandhills,adistantflashoflightunderastillskywithoutclouds.Vance'sheart
swelled; but he turned his eyes back to Laura Lou, and said, with seeming
indifference:"That'snothing...."
The gleam vanished; the train jogged on again between trees and fields.
Houses cropped up, singly, then in groups, then in streets; the train slowed
down by rural platforms, people got in and out. An hour later, as the usual
clankingandjarringannouncedanotherhalt,Vancesaid:"Here!"Hereached
fortheirjointsuitcase,tookLauraLoubythearm,andpushedherexcitedly
toward the door. A minute later they were standing on a shabby platform,
whilethetrainswungoffagainandleftthemaloneinaworldofshantiesand
sandhills. "We'll have to walk," Vance explained, picking up the suitcase,
whichseemedtohimtoweighnomorethanafeather.Assoonastheyhadleft
thestationeveryrutoftheroad,everytussockofgrassandhunched-upscrub
oakcowering downagainstthe wind,started upfamiliarlybefore him.Ifhe
livedtobeathousand,hethought,hewouldneverforgetaninchofthatroad.
Laura Lou seemed to have cast aside her apprehensions. She swung along
beside him, saying now and then: "Where are we going?" and laughing
contentedlyathisjoyous:"You'llsee."Therewasnosenseofwinterintheair;
butastheyadvancedabreathofsaltandseaweedmadetheirfacestingle,and
Vance,drawnbyit,startedintoarun."There'snotaminutetolose!"hecalled
back;andLauraLouracedafterhim,stumblingonherhighheelsamongthe
sandyruts.Theyscrambledon,speechlesswithhaste,drunkwithsunandair
and their own hearts; and presently he dragged her up the last hillock, and
therelaytheocean.Hehadsworntohimselfthatonedayhewouldcomeback
andseeitwiththegirlheloved;buthehadnotknownthatthegirlwouldbe
LauraLou.HefeltalittleawedtothinkthatthehandofDestinyhadbeenon
his shoulder even then; and as he gazed at the heaving silver reaches he
wonderediftheyhadknownallthewhilewherehewasgoing,andifnowthey
sawthepaththatlayahead.
When,threeyearsearlier,hehadcomedowninsummertothatsamebeach,
lonely,halfstarved,dazedwithdiscouragement,feveredfrom
overwork, the sea had been a gray tumult under a sunless sky; now, on this
December day, it flashed with summer fires. "Like my life," he thought,
puttingouthisarmtodrawLauraLoutotheridgeonwhichhesat."There,"
hesaid,hischeekonhers,"there'swhereourbird'smotherwasborn."
Her bewildered eyes turned to him under their hummingbird lashes. "Our
bird'smother?"
"Venus, darling. Didn't you know the dove belonged to Venus? Didn't you
know Venus was our goddess, and that she was born out of the waves, and
cameupalloverfoam?AndthatyoulooksolikeherthatIfeelasifyou'djust
beenblowninononeofthosesilverstreamers,andtheymightpullyouback
anyminuteifIdidn'tholdtightontoyou?"Hesuitedtheacttothewordswith
avehemencethatmadeherlaughoutinrosyconfusion:"Vance,Ineverdid
hearsuchthingsasyoumakeupaboutpeople."
He laughed back and held her fast; but already his thoughts had wandered
againtotheever-heavingwelterofsilver."God,Iwishabiggalewouldblow
upthisveryminute--I'dgiveanythingtoseeallthosemillionsandmillionsof
wavesrearupandwrestlewitheachother."
LauraLoushivered."Iguesswe'dbefrozeniftheydid."
"Why--areyoucold?"hewondered,rememberinghow,asafternoonfell,she
hadgrownpaleandshiveredinthegardenoftheWillows.
Sheshookherhead,nestlingdownagainsthim."No--butI'mhungry,I
believe."
"Hungry? Ye gods! So am I. You bright child, how did you find out?" He
caughthercloseagain,coveringwithkisseshereyesandlipsandhersoftly
beatingthroat.
Hehadpitchedthesuitcasedownattheirfeet,andhestoopedtoopenit,and
pulledoutagreasy-lookingparcel."Whataboutpicnickinghere?I'vealways
wantedtohavethewildwavesatmyweddingparty."Hewasunwrapping,and
spreadingoutonthesand,beefsandwiches,slicesofsausageandstickycake,
cheese,abunch of grapes and a custard pie, allmoreorlessmixed up with
eachother;andheandLauraLoufellonthemwithhungryfingers.Atlastshe
declared:"Oh,Vance,wemustn'teatanymore--oh,no,no,Icouldn't..."but
hecontinuedtopressthefoodonher,andasherlipsopenedtomorselafter
morselthereturningglowwhippedhercheekstocarmine.Thenhedugagain
intothesuitcase,extractedahalf
bottleof champagneanda corkscrew--and lookedabouthim desperatelyfor
glasses."Oh,hell,what'llIdo?Oh,child,there'snothingforustodrinkitout
of!"
Rocking with laughter, she followed the pantomime of his despair. But
suddenly he sprang up, slid down the hillock, and running along the beach
came back with a big empty shell. "Here--our goddess sends you this! She
sailedashoreinashell,youknow."Heflourisheditbeforeher,andthenbade
herholditinbothhands,whileshelaughedandlaughedathisvainstruggles
withthecorkscrewandthechampagnebottle.Finallyhegaveupandknocked
offtheneckofthebottle,andthegoldenfoamcamespiringandsplashinginto
theshellandovertheirhands."Oh,Vance...oh,Vance
..."Shetiltedherheadbackandputherlipstotheflutedrim,andhethought
hehadneverseenanythinglovelierthanthepulsebeatinherthroat
whenthewinerandown."Evertasteanythinglikethat?"heasked,lickinghis
fingers;andshegiggled:"No,nothing,onlygingerale,"andsatandwatched
whileherefilledtheirchaliceanddrankfromit,carefullyputting
hislipswherehershadbeen."It'slikeagaleofwindandwiththesuninit-
-that'swhatit'slike,"hedeclared.Hedidnotconfesstoherthatitwasalsohis
firsttasteofchampagne;unconsciouslyhehadalreadydecidedthatpartofhis
duty as a husband was to be older and stronger than she was, and to know
morethanshedidabouteverything.
"Here'sourhouse,"Vancesaid,swingingherhandtocheerherup.Heknew
by her dragging step that the walk had seemed long to her. To him it had
appeared,allthewayfromthebeachtotheclusterofdesertedbuildingsthey
were approaching, as if the racing waves had carried him. But he forced
himselftowalkslowly,takinghisfirstlessoninthedutyofkeepingstep.
The house, a mere shanty, had a projecting porch roof which gave it a
bungalowlook.WhenVance,bittenwiththeideaofspendinghishoneymoon
bythesea,hadhuntedupthekindlymanageratFriendshipHouse,thelatter,
amazedandthendivertedattheidea--"Landalive--inDecember?"--hadsaid,
whyyes,hedidn'tknowwhyVanceshouldn'thavethekeysofthebungalow
wherethecampmanagerandhiswifestayedwhenthecampwasopen.The
camphadbeenrunupnearafarm,fortheconvenienceofbeinginreachof
milkandcountryproduce,andheguessedthefarmer'swifewouldputsome
fuelinthebungalow,andseeiftheoldstovewoulddraw.Theycouldgetmilk
fromhertoo,hethought,and
maybetheycouldtaketheirmealsatthefarm.Shewasprettygood-natured,
andatthattimeofyearshemightlikealittlecompanyforachange.
Once in most lives things turn out as the dreamer dreamed them. This was
Vance's day, and when he pushed open the door there was the stove, with a
pileofwoodandsomescrapsofcoalreadyforlighting,andajugofmilkand
loaf of bread on the table. The bare boarded room, which looked like the
insideofabathhouse,wasascleanasifithadbeenrecentlyscoured,andthe
drift of sand and crinkled seaweed on the floor merely suggested that a
mermaid might have done the cleaning. Vance laughed aloud for joy. "Oh,
LauraLou,isn'titgreat?"
Shestoodonthethreshold,lookingshylyabouther,andheturnedanddrew
her in. The table bearing the provisions carried also a candle in a tin
candlestick;andagainstthewallstoodasortoftrestlebedwithtwopillows
andacoarsebrownblanket.Twokitchenchairs,ahandfulofbrokencrockery
onashelf,acrackedlookingglass,andapileofoldbasketsandcrackerboxes
inacornercompletedthefurniture.Overthebedhungatatteredcalendar,of
which the last page to be uncovered was dated September 15, and bore the
admonition:LittleChildren,LoveOneAnother.
Vanceburstoutlaughing;then,seeingafainttremoraboutLauraLou'slips,he
said:"See here,yousit down whileI get atthefire." Hebeganto fear their
frailshantymightbetoocoldforherasnightfell;andhedroppedonhisknees
andsettoworkcrammingfuelintothestove.Decidedlyitwashisday;thefire
lit,thestovepipedrew.Butashekneltbeforeithefeltafaintanxiety.Laura
Lousatbehindhim.Shehadnotspokensincetheyhadenteredtheshanty,and
he wondered if she had felt a shock of disappointment. Perhaps she had
expecteda cosy overheated room inaNewYork or Philadelphiahotel,with
whitesheetsonthebedandrunningwater--oh,God,hethoughtsuddenly,how
thehellweretheygoingtogetwashed?Therewasn'tabasinorpitcher,much
less soap or towel. In summer, no doubt, the manager and his wife just ran
down to the sea for a dip. . . . Vance began to be afraid to look around. At
length he heard a sound behind him and felt Laura Lou's hands on his
shoulders.Heturnedwithoutrising,andherface,flushedandwetwithtears,
hungcloseoverhim.
"Why, what is it, darling? The place too rough for you--too lonely? You're
sorrywecame?"hecriedremorsefully.
Shegavehimarainbowsmile."I'llneverbesorrywhereyouare."
"Well,then--"
"OnlyI'msotired,"shesaid,hervoicegrownassmallasachild's.
"Ofcourseyouare,sweet.Here--waittillImakethebedcomfortableandyou
canliedown."Heshookupthemeagrepillows,andaftershehadtakenoffher
shoeshecoveredherwithhercoatandkneltdowntochafehercoldfeet.She
lookedsosmallandhelpless,souncomprehendingandutterlythrownonhis
mercy, that his passion was held in check, and he composed her on the bed
withsoftfraternalhands."There--thefire'llwarmtheplaceupinnotime;and
whileyou'rerestingI'llstepacrosstothefarmandseewhatIcanbringback
forsupper."
"Oh,Vance,Idon'twantanysupper."
"ButIdo--andpipinghot,"hecalledbackwithafactitiousgaiety,wondering
thathehadnotguessedtheplacetotakehertowouldhavebeenahotelwith
animitationmarblerestaurant,andagoodmovienextdoorwhereshecould
readherownromanceintothescreenheroine's.
He grimaced at the thought, and then, lighting the candle, so that the place
mightlookascheerfulaspossible,wentoutandwalkedacrossastubblyfield
tothefarm.Thefarmer'swife,abiggood-naturedSwedishwoman,received
himwithfriendlycuriosity.She'dknownoneortwoyoung fellows to come
downaslateasDecember,shesaid,butshe'dneverhadahoneymoonbefore.
The idea amused her, and she started at once warming up a can of tomato
soup,andofferedVanceasaucepantoheatthemilkforbreakfast.Whileshe
warmedthesouphesatinthewindowofthekitchenandlookedouttothesea.
Whataplace toliveinalways--solitudeand beauty,andthatgreatunresting
Presence calling out night and day with many voices! ("Many voices"--
where'dhereadthat?)There,thewomansaid;sheguessedthesoupwasgood
andhot;maybehe'dlikesomecrackerswithit?Oh,hecouldsettlewhenhe
went away--that was all right. She even rummaged out a tin of prepared
coffee,lefttherewithsomeofthecampstores;hecouldhavethattoo,anda
couple of towels. Soap was more difficult to come by, but she decided that
theycouldhaveheryoungestboy's,ashewasoffclamdiggingforaweek,and
nogreathandatwashinganyhow.Carryingthepotofhotsoupcarefully,his
othersuppliesinhispockets,Vancewalkedbackthroughthetwilight....
Outsideofthedoorhesaidsoftly:"Lou!"Therewasnoanswer,andhelifted
thelatchandwentin.Theroomwasdark,exceptforthecloudyglowthrough
the stove-door and the unsteady candle flicker; at first he had a sense of
enteringonemptiness.ThenhesawthatLauraLouwaslyingas
he had left her, except that she had flung one bare arm above her head.
Shadingthecandlehewentuptothebed.Herlittleface,flushedwiththesea
wind,andtumbledoverwithrumpledstraw-colouredhair,laysidewaysinthe
bendofherarm.Shewassoundasleep,thehummingbirdlashesrestingdarkly
onherclearcheekwiththehollowunderit,andherbreathcomingassoftlyas
if she were in her own bed at home. For the first time Vance felt a faint
apprehensionatwhathehaddone,athisowninexperienceaswellashers,and
the uncertainty of the future. He had bound himself fast to this child, he,
hardlymorethanachildhimselfinknowledgeofmenandinthemysterious
artofgettingon...andforonestrickeninstantheaskedhimselfwhyhehad
done it. The misgiving just flashed through him; but it left an inward chill.
Withthoseothergirlshehadbeentangledupwiththerehadbeennotimefor
suchconjectures;theysuckedhimdowntothemlikequick-sands.Butnowhe
seemedtobebendingoveracoolmoonlitpool....
"WhatshallI say,"hethought,"whenshewakes?" And,atthatmomenther
lids lifted, and her eyes looked into his. The candle slanted in his shaking
hand; but Laura Lou's face was still. "Oh, Vance . . . I was dreaming about
you,"shesaid,withalittlesleep-fringedsmile.
Aboutdawnhewokeandgotupfromherside.Hemovedwithinfinitecaution
lestheshoulddisturbher,drawingonhisclothesandsocks,andpickinguphis
shoestoputthemonoutsideintheporch.Fromthethresholdhelookedback.
Inthepalewinterlightshelaylikealittlemarbleimage;theserenityofher
attitudeseemedtoputthewholeweightoftheadventureonhisshoulders,and
againhethought:"WhydidIdoit?Whatcancomeofit?"andstooddazed
beforethelockedmysteryofhisownmind.Inthoseshorthoursofpassionthe
littlegirlwhohadseemedsofamiliartohimhadsuddenlybecomemysterious
too;closestpartofhimselfhenceforth,yetutterlyremoteandinexplicable;a
womanwithasealedsoul,butwithabodythatclungtohis....Themisgiving
whichhadpassedinaflashthenightbeforenowfastenedonhimwithacold
tenacity. "What do I know about her? What does she know about me?" he
questionedinaterrorofself-scrutiny.Helookedatheragain,andthestartled
thought:"Whatifshewerelyingtheredead?"flashedthroughhismind.How
could such a horrible idea have come to him? In an instant his wild
imaginationhadseizedonit,andhesawhimselfmaimed,desolate,crushed--
butfree.Freetoopenthatdoorandgoout,straightbacktohislifeoftwodays
before,withouttheawfulburdenofresponsibilityhehadmadlyshouldered...
. The vision lasted but the flicker of a lid, but like lightning at night in an
unknown landscape it lit up whole tracts of himself that he had never seen.
Thehorrorwassostrongthathehalfturnedbackto
wakeherupanddispelit.Thefaintstirofherbreastunderherthinnightdress
reassuredhim,andheunlatchedthedoorandwentout....Instantlythehorror
vanished,andashesawbeforehimthegreatmotionlesscurvesofseaandsky,
and thought that all the while they had been there, hushed and secret,
encircling his microscopic adventure, a sense of unifying power took
possessionofhim,asitusedtoin hisboyhood."Andallthe timetherewas
that!"hethought.
Hepulledonhisshoesandraceddowntothesea.Theairwasstillmild,and
hestoodbythefringeoflittlewavesandlookedeastwardatthebaroflight
reddeningacrossthewaters.Ashestoodthere,alltheshapesofbeautywhich
hadhauntedhisimaginationseemedtorisefromtheseaanddrawabouthim.
Theyswepthimupwardintothefaintdapplingsofthemorningsky, and he
caught,asinamysticvision,themeaningofbeauty,thesecretofpoetry,the
senseoftheforcesstrugglinginhimforexpression.Howcouldheeverhave
beenafraid--afraidofLauraLou,offate,ofhimself?Shewasthevesselfrom
which he had drunk this divine reassurance, this moment of union with the
universe. Whatever happened, however hard and rough the road ahead, he
wouldcarryheronhisheartlikethelittlecupofhisgreatcommunion....
XXII
Fortwomorebalmydaystheylingered,ecstaticchildren,bythesea;buton
thethirdtheairfreshened.LauraLoubegantocough,andVance,frightened,
packeduptheirpossessionsandcarriedherbacktocivilization.Hehadmade
uphismindtogivehertwenty-fourhoursataNewYorkhotel,withagood
eveningatthemoviesoracabaretshow(shouldherimaginationsoarsohigh),
afterwhich--thoughhehadnotconfessedit--heknewnomorethanshewhere
theyweregoing.
Hehadnopressinganxietyaboutmoney.Hismindwasteemingwithvisions,
andinhisstateofoverwroughtblisseverydreamseemedeasytocaptureand
interpret.Hispreferencewouldhavebeentositdownbytheseaandwritean
immenselylongpoem;butheknewthatLauraLou,theinspirerofthisdesire,
was also the insuperable obstacle to its fulfilment. He would write stories
instead;aftertheacceptanceof"Unclaimed"hefelt
nodoubtthathecouldsellasmanyashechose.Andhehadpromised,assoon
as possible after his marriage, to call on Tarrant, and talk over the plan of
becomingaregularcontributorto TheHour. Still, to live in New York with
LauraLouwouldbeacostlyifnotimpossibleundertaking.Shewasasmuch
of a luxury as an exotic bird or flower: that she might help him in wage
earningor housekeepinghadnever enteredhismind. Hehadsimply wanted
herpastendurance,andnowhehadher;andexquisiteasthepossessionwas,
hewasabruptlyfacedwiththecostofit.
Hefoundahotelshowyenoughtodazzleherwithoutbeingtooexorbitantly
dear;andtheyhaddinnerinashammarblerestaurantwhereeverymasculine
eyewasturnedtothem,andsheglowedininnocentenjoymentofthewarmth
and light, and the glory of sitting with him, as his wife, at a pink-candle-
shaded table. Afterward, with a charming assumption of superiority, she
decided on a theatre rather than the pictures. It was a good deal more
expensive--but, hang it, he'd write another story: it was wonderful, how the
unwritten stories were accumulating on the shelves of his mental library. It
was he who selected the play: Romeo and Juliet, with a young actress,
tragicallylovely, as Juliet;and presently theywereseated inthefashionable
audience,Vancewithmindandeyerivetedonthestage,LauraLouobviously
puzzledbythequeerwordstheactorsusedandthelengthoftheirspeeches,
and stealing covert glances (when what was going on became too
incomprehensible)atthefashionableclothesandexquisitelywavedheadsall
about them. Between the acts she sat silent, brimming with a happy
excitement,her hand closeinherhusband's, as if thatcontactwere the only
cluetolife.Asattherestaurant,manyglancesweredrawntohersmallhead
withitssilvery-blonderipplesandthetendermouldingofbrowandcheek;but
Vancesawthatshewaswhollyunawareofattractingattention,andenclosed
inhisnearnessasinacrystalworldofherown.
Graduallythisbarrierwaspenetratedbywhatwashappeningonthestage:the
beautyoftheyoungactress,thecompellingmusicofthewords,seemedtostir
in Laura Lou some confused sense of doom, and Vance felt her anguished
clutchonhisarm."Oh,Vanny,I'msureit'sgoingtoendbad,"shewhispered,
andatearformedonherlashesandtrembleddown.
"You darling--" he breathed back, wondering why on earth he had chosen
Romeo and Juliet for a honeymoon outing; but when the tragedy rose and
brokeonthemhesawthatevenhertears,nowflowinginasilverstream,were
partofthehappinessinwhichshewassteepedtotheweepinglashes."It'stoo
dreadful . . . it's too lovely . . ." she moaned alternately as the play moved
deathward,andwithafurtivemovementshedriedherwetcheek
against his sleeve. And brooding on those beautiful dead lovers they went
hometoanothernightoflove.
Thenext morning Vance presentedhimselfat the officeofTheHour. As he
sprang up the stairs he almost ran into Frenside, who was coming slowly
down.Theoldermanstoppedandlookedathimcuriously.
"Goinguptosettleaboutyourjob?""Well,Ihopeso,sir."
"Allright.Goodluck."Frensidenoddedandpassedon.Fromalowerstephe
turnedtocallback:"Iwouldn'ttieyourselfuptoofarahead--especiallyyour
fiction."
Vance, new at such transactions, stared a moment, not quite understanding.
"Keepfree--keepfreeaslongasyoucan,"Frensiderepeated,hobbling
downwithaheavyrapofhisstickoneachstep.AndVanceturnedintothe
office.
He found a cordial welcome from Tarrant. Everybody on the staff had read
"Unclaimed,"andgreathopeswerefoundedonitsappearanceinthecoming
number.Tarrantproducedcigarettesandcocktails,andintroducedEricRauch,
theassistanteditor.EricRauchwasaglibyoungJewwithbeautifuleyesanda
responsivesmile,whohadpublishedan obscure volume of poetry: Voodoo,
andamuchtalked-ofcollectionofsocialstudies:SayWhen.Forthefirsttime
Vancefoundhimselftalkingwithanauthor,andtreatedbyhimasoneofthe
tribe.WhenRauchsaid:"You'vestruckoutonanewline,"thepraiserushed
throughVancelikefire,andhelongedtohurrybacktothehotelandtellLaura
Lou.Butwhatwouldithavemeanttoher?
After these agreeable preliminaries Tarrant looked at his watch, said: "Half-
past one, by Jove--and I'm due at the Century, to lunch with old Willsdon."
Willsdon,thehistorian,hadpromisedTheHouranarticleon"ANewAspect
of Benjamin Franklin," and Tarrant hurried off, saying: "You and Eric'll be
abletofixupdetails.Comeroundagainsoon,won'tyou?"
EricRauchproposedthatVanceshouldlunchwithhimattheCocoanutTree,a
nearby lunchroom, and they walked there, Vance's steps dancing down the
streetasifthedullpavementweretheseashore.TalkingtoafellowlikeRauch
was something as new to him as his first sight of the ocean, and almost as
exciting....
AttheCocoanutTreetheymetotherfellowswhowerewritingorpainting,or
doingsomethingwiththearts.ToVance,whosehorizonhadgreatlywidened
intheintervalsincehisfirstvisittoNewYork,thenamesoftwoorthreeof
the older men were familiar; but the ones Rauch took most seriously--
vanguardfellows,heexplained--wholookedasyouthfulasVancehimself,the
latterhadneverheardof.Theyallgreetedhimgood-humouredly,andone,a
criticnamedRedman,said:"Seehere,whenareyougoingtogiveusanovel?"
"TheHour'sgoingtoseetothat,"Rauchrejoinedbriskly;andanotheryoung
man, with bruised eyelids in a sallow illumined face, and a many- syllabled
nameendingin"ovsky,"adjuredVancewithardentSlavgestures:"ForGod's
saketacklesomethingbig--colossal--cosmic--getawayfromthevillagepump
..."whileashabbilydressedgirlwithagreasymopofblackhairandbold
gayeyespushed up to the table,exclaiming:"Eric, why don't you introduce
me?I'mthesculptressRebeccaStram,andIwanttodoyourheadoneofthese
days,"sheexplainedtoVance.
"Well,Iguessyouwill,ifyouwantto,"saidRauchhumorously;"onlyletthe
poordevilhavesomethingtoeatbeforeyoubegintofeelhisbumps."
It all sent a novel glow through Vance, and he thought how wonderful life
wouldbe,spentamongthesefellowswhotalkedofartasfreelyandfamiliarly
as his father did of real estate deals. Eric Rauch explained who they were,
whattheyhadwrittenorpaintedorcarved("ThatStramgirl--she'saregular
headhunter;brightidea,doingallthenewcomers..."),andwhichoneswere
likelyto"getthere."ForthefirsttimeVancewasinductedintotheworldof
literarycompetitionsandrewards.EricRauchsaidtherewasabigcampaign
onalready forthis year'sPulsiferPrize;hadn'tVance heardofit? Bestshort
storyoftheyear...Twothousanddollars;andofcourseTheHourwasgoing
to try for it for "Unclaimed." "And, by the way, what have you got on the
stocksnow?"Andthenthebusinesstalkbegan.
RauchsaidhehadbeenchargedbyTarranttocometoanunderstandingwith
Weston.TheybelievedinhimatTheHour--theirpolicywasforward-looking;
theywantedtomaketheirowndiscoveries,nottobuttinwheresomebodyelse
hadalreadystakedoutaclaim.Weston,now--hewouldn't
mind Rauch's saying frankly that as a writer he was utterly unknown?
Because,unluckily, owingtomuddle-headedmismanagement,hisfirst story,
"OneDay,"hadbeenallowedtofallflat,dropoutofsightascompletelyasif
ithadneverbeenwritten.Andtheywouldhavetobuilduphisreputationall
overagainwith"Unclaimed,"which,theythought,wasquiteasremarkableas
the other; though of course they couldn't guarantee the public's taking to it,
withthesillyprejudicetherewasagainstwarstories.Anyhow,itwasagood
gamble,andtheyweregladtoriskit.AndtoprovetheirfaithinWeston,they
were willing to go farther; willing to take an option on his whole output,
articles,shortstoriesandnovels,forthenextthreeyears.Rauchdidn'tknowif
Westonrealizedwhatachancethatwasforabeginner,who--well,wasn'tina
position, let's say, to order himself an eight-cylinder Cadillac . . . for the
present,anyhow....
ButTarrantwantedtodomore.HeunderstoodthatWestonwasjustmarried,
and he knew that when a man takes on domestic responsibilities there's
nothing like a steady job, even a small one, for making his mind easy. The
Hour therefore proposed to let Vance try his hand at a monthly article on
currentliteraryevents.They'dfindaracytitle,andlethimhavefullswing--no
editorialinterferenceifthefirstarticlestook.Afresheyeandpersonalviews
were what they were after--none of the old mummified traditions. And for
thosetwelvearticlestheywouldguaranteehima salaryoffifteenhundreda
yearforthreeyears,withoutprejudicetowhatheearnedbyhisfiction:saya
hundredandfiftyforthenexttwostoriesafter"Unclaimed,"anddoublethat
forthefollowingyear,ifhewouldguaranteethreestoriesayear,orpossibly
four.Only,ofcourse,hewastopledgehimselfnottowriteforanyotherpaper
or publisher--no other publisher, because The Hour's solicitude included an
arrangement for book publication with their own publishers, Dreck and
Saltzer.TarranthadgoneintoallthatsothatWestonshouldbeabletogetto
workatonce,freefrombusinessworries.He'dhadsomedifficultyingettinga
publishertolookatitthatwayandsignforthreeyears,buthe'dfoughtitout
withthem,andasDreckandSaltzerweregreatbelieversinTheHourthey'd
finallyagreed,andhadthecontractready."Sonowallyou'llhavetodoisto
lie back and turn out masterpieces," Rauch cheerfully concluded, lighting a
finalcigarette."Saythough,it'sprettyneartimetogetbacktotheoffice,"he
added,withaglanceathiswatch."Shallwegonowandsettlethingsonthe
spot?"
Vance sat flushed and brooding, his brows drawn together in the effort to
calculate his yearly income on the basis suggested. Figures always puzzled
him, and a fortnight earlier he would have acquiesced at once, to get rid of
troublesomepreliminaries.ButwithLauraLouinthebackgrounditwas
different....Hetriedwritingoutthefiguresmentallyonthetablecloth,but
whenitcametoaddingthemuptheybecameblurredandvanished....
"Well,Iguessthatwouldn'ttotaluptomuchovertwothousanddollarsayear,
wouldit?"heventured,tryingtogivehisvoiceabusinesslikesound.
Erich Rauch arched his eyebrows in a way that signified: "Well--for a
beginner? For a gamble?" Then, as Vance was silent, he threw off: "There's
nothingtopreventyourwritinganovel,youknow."
"Whatwouldyougivemeforanovel?"Vanceasked.
EricRauch'seyebrowsflattenedthemselvesoutmeditatively."Whatsortofa
novelwouldyougiveus?"Then,withalaugh:"Seehere,Idon'tseethatwe
needlookasfaraheadjustyet....Anoveltakestime;butmeanwhilethere's
thePulsiferPrize,don'tforget.We'regoingtoputupabigfighttogetthatfor
you."
Vancelookedathim,perplexed.ThePulsiferPrize--twothousanddollarsfor
thebestshortstoryoftheyear!HecouldpayoffBuntyHayesatastroke,and
liveonEasyStreetwiththebalance...buyLauraLousomeprettyclothes,
and have time to think over subjects, and look round. . . . His heart beat
excitedly....ButwhatcouldTheHourdoaboutit?heasked.
"Why,boomyouforallwe'reworth.Youcangetevenashortstoryintothe
limelightnowadayswithmoney.Andwemeantospendmoneyon
'Unclaimed.'"
"ButIdon'tunderstand.WhogivesthisPulsiferPrizeanyhow?"
"Oh, a rich society woman: widow of old Pulsifer, the railroad man. It's the
eventofherlife--"
"Why,doessheawardtheprizeherself?"
"Blessyou,no:it'sdonetheusualway.Bunchofhighbrowsasjudges."Rauch
paused,andaddedwithhisexquisitesmile:"Evenjudgesarehuman...."He
lettherestofthesmiledriftawaythroughhiscigarettespirals.
Vanceunderstoodandwinced.Theuseofthebusinessvocabularywaswhat
herecoiledfrom. Thatthere shouldbe "deals,"transactions,compromisesin
businesswasamatterofcoursetohim.Thatwasbusiness,asheunderstoodit;
hisfather'slifewasalabyrinthofsuchunderground
arrangements. But Vance had never taken any interest in business, or heard
applied to it the standards of loyalty which are supposed to regulate men's
privatelives,andwhichhehadalwaysthoughtofasprevailingintherepublic
of letters. To him an artist's work was essentially a part of the private life,
something closer than the marrow to the bone. Any thing that touched the
sanctity, the incorruptibility, of the creative art was too contemptible to be
seriouslyconsidered.Aswellgobacktodoingwrite-upsfortheFreeSpeaker.
...Vancelookedatthecleveryouthbehindthesmokewreaths,andthought:
"Queerthatafellowwhowritespoetrycancareforthatsortofsuccess..."
forthepoetsseemedtohimhardlylowerthantheangels.
Hesaidcurtlythathedidn'tcareadarnforprizes,andEricrejoined:"Notfor
two-thousand-dollarones?"
Vance,alittledizzy,neverthelessechoed:"Notadarn--"
"Well, The Hour does, then. It's something you owe us if we take you on--
see?Abeginner...Everything'saquestionofgiveandtake...fairplay.Not
thatImean...ofcourselittleO'Fallerymaypullofftheprizeanyhow,with
'LimpCollars.'Shouldn'twonderifhedid.Hispublisher'shustlingroundfor
him--Iknowthat.Andwedon'tguaranteeanything...See?"
ThelastphrasebroughtavaguereassurancetoVance.Ofcoursetheycouldn't
guaranteeanything...ofcourselittleO'Fallerymightgettheprize.Vancehad
read "Limp Collars," and thought it well-named . . . pretty poor stuff. . . .
Seemed a pity. . . . Anyhow, he saw with relief that he must have
misunderstoodRauch.OfcourseTheHourwasn'tgoingtotrytocorruptthe
judges--whatanabsurdity!Theyweresimplygoingtodirectpublicopinion:
that was what "limelight" meant. Any fellow's publisher had a right to
commendhisgoods....
LauraLouhadbeencaptivatedbyagirlwhosatnearthematthetheatreina
peach-colouredsilk...orlace,orsomething...notapatchonLauraLou,the
girlwasn't,butevenVancecouldseetherewasalookaboutthedress....His
LauraLou!Therewouldn'tbeoneof'emcouldtouchherifonlyhecouldgive
hertogslikethat....
"Whenshemoves,yousee
Likewaterfromacrystaloverflowed,
Freshbeautytrembleoutofher,andlave
Herfairsidestotheground..."
Heshuthiseyesonthevisionandthought:"Andyeteventheonesthatlook
likethatwantfinery!"
"OfcourseI'dlikethatprizefirst-rate,"hemumbled.
"Well,Iguessit'syours--onthemeritofthestoryalone.Only,ourjobistoget
that merit known," Eric Rauch explained patiently, as they rose to get their
hatsandcoats.Theywalkedbacktogethertotheoffice,andbeforeVanceleft
hehadsignedthetwocontractswhichlayreadyforhimonTarrant'sdesk:one
surrenderingtoTheHourallhisserialrightsforthreeyears,theotherpledging
himforthesameperiodoftimetoDreckandSaltzerforbookpublication.
Onthewaydownstairs,lateintheafternoon,herememberedmeetingFrenside
comingdownthesamestairsinthemorning,andrecalledhiswarning:"Keep
free."
"Oh,well,"Vancesaidtohimself,"what'shemadeofhislife,anyway?"For
Frensidealreadyseemedtohimasremoteasoldageandfailure.Hisheadwas
brimmingwithideasforhisarticle,andforotherstofollow,anditwasagreed
(at his suggestion) that the series should appear under the caption of "The
CocoanutTree,"inmemoryofthespotwherethebargainhadbeenstruck."I
wantatreetoclimb,togetabird's-eyeviewfrom,"Vancehadsaid,laughing;
and Rauch replied that he was sure the title would take Tarrant's fancy. He
pressedacopyofhispoemsonVance,andthelattersetoff,hisheartbeating
highatthethoughtofannouncingtoLauraLouthathewasamemberofthe
editorial staff of The Hour, had signed a three years' contract with a big
publisher. "She won't understand what it's all about, but it'll sound good to
her,"hethought.Andsoitdidtohim.
LauraLoushowedtheradiantincomprehensionhehadforeseen."Oh,Vance,
isn't it great?" She clung to him and worshipped; then, loosening her arms,
drewbackandliftedineffableeyestohis."Oh,Vanny--"
He laughed and recaptured her. "Guess you're thinking already what show
we'll pick for tonight, aren't you?" He grew reckless. "And, say, darling, if
there'sanythingparticularyouwanttobuy..."Heknewtherewouldbeno
pay till the end of the coming month, but time seemed as negligible as age
whilesheliftedhertremblingsmiletohim.
"Oh,Vanny...Iwonder,couldwegooutandbuysomethingtotakebackto
Mother?"
"Sure." He laughed with relief. Mrs. Tracy's wants could be more
inexpensivelysuppliedthanherdaughter's;andbesides,helikedLauraLou's
not instantly asking for something for herself. Then he looked again and
noticedashadowofanxietyonherradiance.Hesawthatshewasaskingfor
somethingforherself,butinwardly,becauseshedarednotspeakit."Whatis
it,sweet?Anythingbotheringyou?"
Yes, something was: her mother. They'd been gone four days now, she
remindedVance,andMrs.Tracydidn'tevenknowwheretheywere,andmust
havebeenfrettingdreadfullyoverthatletterherdaughterhadleft;andwhat
Laura Lou wanted, oh, beyond anything, was to start right off for Paul's
Landing--oh, Vance, truly, couldn't they?--and surprise her mother with the
splendid news, and make everything all right that very day. Oh, wouldn't
Vancehelphertopackupatonce,andmaybetheycouldcatchthefiveo'clock
express,andpopinonMrs.Tracyjustasshewasclearingawaysupper?
Their hotel was close to the train, their packing was soon done. Secretly,
Vance was relieved by his wife's suggestion. The rush of his happiness had
swept away all resentment against Mrs. Tracy, and he felt obscurely in the
wrong in having persuaded Laura Lou to marry without her mother's
knowledge.OnlythecertaintyofMrs.Tracy'soppositionhadmadehimdoso;
buthecouldnotshakeoffhiscompunction,forheknewherlifehadbeenfull
ofdisappointments,andthatLauraLou'sflightwouldbethebitterest.Nowit
wasalldifferent;withhistwocontractsinhispockethecouldfacehismother-
in-lawwithheaderect.ShewouldsurelyratherseeLauraLoumarriedtothe
assistant editor of The Hour than to the barker of a sightseeing car; and if
VanceshouldcapturethePulsiferPrizetheHayesdebtwouldbecancelledat
once.Theypaidinhasteandhurriedtothestation,findingtimeonthewayto
selectforMrs.Tracyablacksilkbagmountedinimitationamber."Shenever
has anything pretty," Laura Lou explained, as if excusing so frivolous a
choice; and Vance, remembering the basket of sweet peas with the stuffed
dove,musedoncemoreonthemysteriousutilityoftheuseless.
XXIII
Mrs. Tracy's forgiveness turned out harder to win than they had imagined.
Whentheycameonherthateveningclearingawayherlonelysupper,asLaura
Louhadpredicted, theirarrivalprovokedaburst oftearsandanembracein
which Vance managed to get included. But the rousing of Mrs. Tracy's
emotions did not affect her judgment. The exchange of acrimonious letters
betweenPaul'sLandingandEuphoria,atthetimewhenshehadorderedVance
out of her house, had sown ineradicable seeds. Even had her son-in-law's
prospectsimpressedher asmuchashehadhoped,her viewwouldnothave
changed; but, as Vance soon perceived, she remained unimpressed by the
documents so proudly spread before her. "I guess newspaper work's more
reliablethanmagazines,"shemerelyremarked,nodoubtmindfulofthedizzy
heightstowhichjournalismhadliftedBuntyHayes.
Buttheseweresecondaryconsiderations;forshenowregardedVanceasthe
corrupter of both her children. Vance had taken Upton to a "bad house" (so
Upton, the sneak, had never shouldered his part of the blame!); Vance had
madeLauraLoudeceivehermotherandbreakherpromisetoBuntyHayes,
thepromiseon the strength of which Mrs. Tracy had accepted a loan that it
might take years to repay. Vance had wounded her in her pride and her
affection;andthedoublehumiliationwasnoteffacedbythisvaguetalkabout
areviewthatwasgoingtogivehimahundreddollarsapieceforarticleshe
hadn'tevenwritten.
"Mr. Hayes wanted she should be brought up like a lady, as her father's
daughteroughttobe,"Mrs.Tracysaidoverand over again, during her first
privatetalkwithVance,onthedayaftertheirreturntoPaul'sLanding.
"Shedoesn'thavetobeinHayes'spaytolearntobealady--IguessGodmade
herthat,"Vanceretorted.Mrs.Tracy,withacoldpatience,saidheknewwell
enough what she meant--she meant, educated like a lady, the way all the
Lorburns had been; the way she couldn't afford to educate her children
because of her husband's misfortunes, and his dying just when things were
going against them. . . . Mr. Hayes had understood, and had wanted to help
them,andhadactedasagentlemanwould....
"Well,Iguessyoucantrustmetoactaswellashedid,"Vancesaid,toohappy
nottobegenerous,andfeelinghowpooracasehecouldmakeoutforhisown
behaviour.ButMrs.Tracyonlyansweredthat,whatevershemightfeelabout
thematter,LauraLouwasnotfreetobreakherengagementtillthatthousand
dollarswaspaidback.
"Why, see here, there's been a law in the United States for some years now
againsttradinginfleshandblood,"Vancebrokeout,hisirritationrisingagain;
buttheresentmentinMrs.Tracy'seyesshowedhimtheuselessnessofirony.
"I guess I understand well enough how you feel," he began humbly. "But
Laura Lou loved me, and didn't love Hayes; that's about the only answer.
Anyhow,I'vetoldyouImeantopaybackthatloanassoonaseverIcan.I've
got the promise of a salary of fifteen hundred dollars, and I'm going to get
righttoworkearningit,andasmuchoveritasIcan;andeverycentIcanput
by each month will go to paying off Hayes. You couldn't seriously expect
LauraLouandmetoletathousanddollarsseparateus,couldyou?"
Mrs.Tracyreplied,obliquely,thatshesupposedheknewbythistimewhathis
ownfolksintendedtodoforhim;andthisbroughtVanceupwithajerk,forhe
had not yet told his parents of his marriage. He stood before Mrs. Tracy
flushed and irresolute while she added: "I guess a thousand dollars isn't the
mountaintothemitistome.Butmaybetheydon'tfancyyourgettingmarried
soyoung."
"I--Ihaven'theardyet,"Vancestammered,andshesaid,evidentlyperceiving
her advantage, and enjoying the chance to exercise a grim magnanimity:
"Well, I guess you and Laura Lou'd better stay here till you hear what your
familymeantodo."
Vance and Laura Lou knew she was secretly thankful to have them there.
Upton'snewjobmadeitimpossibleforhimtoliveatPaul'sLanding,andhis
motherwasnervousaloneinthehouse,yetreluctanttoleavebecauseofher
monthlyallowanceforthe careofthe Willows;so that,herresentment once
expressed,shefounditeasiertokeeptheoffendersthantosendthemaway.
Vance,whenhecarriedoffLauraLou,hadneverthoughtofthepossibilityof
havingtoliveatPaul'sLanding.VaguevisionsoflifeinaNewYorkboarding
househadflittedthroughhismind,orratherlurkedscarce-visibleonitsedge;
buttillhehadpersuadedLauraLoutocometohimnothinghadseemedreal
ornearathandsavetheblisshecraved,andbeforefourdaysofthatblisswere
overheunderstoodthathelackedtheexperienceandthemoneytomakeany
sort of home for her. They were lucky to have Mrs. Tracy to turn to; her
conditionalforgiveness,andtheshelterofhertumbledownroof,werethebest
theycouldexpect--unlessMapledaleAvenueshouldintervene.ButVancehad
smallexpectationofhelpfromhome.Hehadbeenstartledbacktoasenseof
realitybyMrs.Tracy'squestion;forhehadnotmeanttoconcealhismarriage
fromhisparents,but
had simply forgotten all about them. From the very moment--less than a
fortnightago--whenhehadsteppedoutoftheGrandCentralandseenLaura
Louintherubberneckcar,hehadthoughtofnothingelse--hardlyevenofhis
art.Thesightofher,thesoundofhervoice,thetouchofherhandhadrapthim
awayfromcommonvaluesanddimensionsintothatmysticdomaintowhich
hesometimes escaped from the pressure of material things. To that domain
LauraLouatthemomentheldthekey,ashithertogreatpoetryhadheldit,the
sunrisefromThundertop,hisfirstsightofthesea,hisplungeintothepastin
thelibrary at the Willows,or any of theotherimaginative shocks thatflung
open the gates of wonder. But the world to which Laura Lou admitted him
seemedto comprise all the others, and itwasnottillhe woke from his first
ecstasy that he saw she herself was not an extra-terrestrial joy but a solid
earthlyfact,capableofapprehendingonlytheearthlyboundsoutofwhichher
beautyhadliftedhim.LauraLou,dispenserofraptures,wasmerelyahuman
being to be fed, clothed, cherished--what was it the minister had said?--in
sicknessandinhealth,tilldeathshouldthempart.Andaslongastheywere
togetheritcouldbeonly(toheratleast)intheworldoffood,clothes,salary,
sickness or health, prosperity or failure, mothers-in-law or boarding houses.
AsVancewentuptobed,afteradrawnbattleinthecolddimlylitdiningroom
withhisfirst"CocoanutTree"article,hereflected:"Well,anyway,Iknowit
makesherhappytobebackhere,"andbenthisimpetuousnecktotheyoke.
At first the yoke proved less heavy than he had expected. While he was at
work Laura Lou had her mother's companionship. During their brief days
alone his wife's tenderness had begun to frighten him, not its ardour but its
submissiveness.Hehadnotimaginedthatonehumanlifecouldbesoswiftly
and completely absorbed into another. It was like a blood transfusion: body
and soul, he seemed to have taken her into himself; whenever he returned,
after an absence of a few hours, only her lovely ghost awaited him, and his
presence had to warm her back to life. Now it was different. Her love was
quietedby thereturnto thedaily routineinfamiliar surroundings.She, who
hadformerlydonesolittletohelphermother,wasnoweagertoshareinthe
householdlabours;Vanceguessedthatshewastryingtolearnhowtomakea
homeforhim.Alreadyshesternlydefendedhisworkinghours,andhadonce
ortwicereprovedMrs.Tracyforaskinghimtobringupthecoalorclearout
the roof gutter. Luckily, if clumsy he was willing, and had no objection to
undertaking the tasks which had been Upton's, if only the women would let
himalonewhile
he wrote. This was not very difficult, since he worked in the afternoon and
after they had gone to bed; and the first weeks at Paul's Landing passed
peacefully.
OnedayUptoncameover.Hehadgrownbroaderandstronger,andhisnew
jobhadgivenhimanairofimportancewhichatfirstamusedandthenirritated
Vance,towhomhewasstilltheshiftyboyofthreeyearsago.Uptondidnot
appear much more pleased with Laura Lou's marriage than his mother, nor
moreimpressedbyVance'sliterarycredentials.Whilethewomenwereinthe
kitchenhefollowedVancebacktothediningroom,wherethelatterhadbeen
given a corner for his desk and papers, shut the door solemnly, and asked:
WhataboutBuntyHayes?Vancelaughed,andsaidheguessedBuntyHayes
wasn'tgoingtobotherthemmuch,andanyhowhe'dhadthreeweeksnowto
stirthingsup,andtheyhadn'theardfromhim.
"Oh,butyouwill,"Uptonsaid,alittleapprehensively."HewasinCalifornia
whenLauraLouandyouwentoff,andIdon'tbelieveheknowsanythingyet.
HisjobinNewYorkendedafterThanksgiving,andthefirmthatemployshim
senthimWesttolookoversomewinterandspringroutes.Iguesshe'llbeback
anyday,"headded.
Vance laughed again. "Well, what do you think he'll do?" Upton coloured
uncomfortably, and said: "I'd feel better if Mother hadn't taken the money."
Vancerejoinedthathewouldtoo,butasithadbeentakentheonlythingwas
to pay it back. He understood Saint Elfrida's School wouldn't refund an
advanceifthepupilhadtakenpartofthecourse,andhewasgoingtodohis
best to get the loan paid off as quickly as his earnings permitted. He was
gettingboredwiththesubject,andtriedtochangeit,butUpton,scratchinghis
head,insisteddubiously:"Iwish'tyoucouldhaveraisedthewholethousand
rightaway.He'sthekindtoturnugly."
"Oh,Ithoughthewasafriendofyours,"Vancerappedback,exasperated;but
Uptonanswered:"Well,Iguessyou'dbettertryandstayfriendswithhimtoo,
ifyoudon'twanthimcomingroundandraisinghell."
Vance would have been angry if he had not seen that Upton, under his
commandingmanner,wasstillthescaredboyofold.Thediscoverymadehim
smile, and rejoin: "Well, I guess I'd better get to work right now, and try to
earnsomemoneyforhim,"--atwhichUptonsulkilywithdrew.
Vancebecame aware,after this,thatthe onlything torestorehis creditwith
Mrs.Tracywouldbetheapprovalofhisfamily.Iftheywerepleasedwithhis
marriagetheywoulddosomethinghandsome;andthesomething
handsomewouldhelptowipeouttheHayesloan.Vancesharedherview,but
not her hope; he knew what his family would think. The exchange of
acrimoniouslettershadlefttracesnolessdeep inMapledaleAvenuethanat
Paul'sLanding.Hispeoplewouldregarditasfollyforhimtomarryathisage,
andbeindignantwithhimformarryingtheTracygirlafterthewaytheTracys
hadtreatedhim.Theseconsiderationsweightedhispenwhenhewrotehome
to announce his marriage; and he was less surprised than Mrs. Tracy at the
timewhichelapsedbeforehehadananswer.
ThefirstsigncamefromGrandmaScrimser,whosenthimabeautifulletter,a
Bible,andayear'ssubscriptiontoSpiritLight,towhichsheandherdaughter
Saidie Toler were now regular contributors. Grandma thought it lovely and
braveofhimtogetmarriedrightoff.ShehopedthatLauraLouwasaspretty
andhigh-mindedas hermother,when Mrs.Tracy hadcomeouttoseethem
years ago, on her wedding tour, and that Vanny would bring his bride to
Euphoria right away, and that their married life would be full of spiritual
benedictions.
AfewdayslaterMrs.Westonwrote.Shesaidtheyhadbeensotakenabackby
Vance's news that they didn't know what to say. They'd all supposed Vance
wouldhavetoomuchprideevertosetfootinMrs.Tracy'shouseagain,and
now first thing they knew he'd married her daughter, without even telling
them,oraskingtheiradviceorapproval.Hisfatherhadbeensohurtandupset
thatatfirstshedidn'tknowhowshe'deverbringhimround,andevennowhe
couldn't make up his mind to write; but she, Mrs. Weston, had finally
persuadedhimtoletherdoso,andhehadtoldhertosaythatifVancechose
to bring his wife out to Euphoria and get a job there, the couple would be
welcometothespareroomtolivein,andMr.Westonwouldseewhathecould
dotogetVancetakenbackontheFreeSpeaker,thoughofcoursehecouldn't
guaranteeanything--onlyVancemight beableto dosomethingif hewason
thespot,soMrs.Westonthoughtthey'dbettercomeoutassoonastheycould.
She added in a postscript that Mr. Weston had showed the terms of Vance's
contract with The Hour to the celebrated authoress, Yula Marphy, who was
overfromDakinvisitingwithfriendsatEuphoria,andMissMarphyhadsaid,
whyitlookedtoherlikeadownrightswindle,forshecouldgetfivehundred
dollarsanydayforastoryinthebigmagazines,andshe'dneverheardofThe
Houranyhow,andsheguesseditwasoneofthosehighbrowpapersthatrunat
a loss for a year or so, and then fizzle out. And what she advised was for
VancetocomestraightbackWest,wherehebelonged,andtakeupnewspaper
workagain,andwritepuremanlystoriesaboutyoungfellowsprospectingin
theYukon,orthatsortofthing,becausethebigreadingpublicwasfedupwith
descriptionsofcorruptsocietypeople,liketherewasademandforinthe
East. Mrs. Weston added that his sisters sent him their love, and hoped his
marriage would make him very happy; and would he be sure and telegraph
when to expect him, as they presumed Mrs. Tracy was still without a
telephone?
ThestingofthisdidnotescapeVance.ThesocialclassificationsofEuphoria
were based on telephones and bathtubs; but he had already guessed that
elsewhere other categories prevailed. His irritation made it easier to answer
thanif the letterhadbeenmore cordial. He wrotethathe didn't supposehis
father would seriously advise him, even if he were willing to break his
contract, to give up a good opening in New York for a problematic job at
Euphoria.Hethankedhisparentsforofferinghiswifeandhimselfaroom,but
added that his mother-in-law had already given them a home at Paul's
Landing.AndhepostedthisletterwithouttellingeitherMrs.TracyorLaura
Lou that he had heard from his mother. To his grandmother he wrote
affectionately;he knewthataBibleand a year's subscription to Spirit Light
werethebestshecouldafford,andthetoneofherlettertouchedhim.Shewas
theonehumanbeingatEuphoriawhohaddimlyguessedwhathewasgroping
for:theirsoulshadbrushedwingsinthetwilight....
Theweekspassed.Hetookhisfirstarticle--"ColeridgeToday"--toTheHour,
andEricRauchwasenthusiastic,butsaidVancemusttackleacontemporary
next time. Rauch suggested his own volume of poems, Voodoo, and Vance
reddened and mumbled at the suggestion. The little book had interested and
puzzled him; he was surprised to watch, under its modern bluster, so many
half-familiar notes. He said he didn't believe he was ready yet to tackle the
new poetry; hadn't read enough or understood enough of it; Eric Rauch
rejoined,withhiscompellingsmile:"Why,that'sjustwhatwe'reafterforThe
Hour:afellow'sfirstreactions,beforehe'sready.Wewanttowipeoutthepast
and get a fresh eye on things. We can get standardized reviewing by the
bushel."Vancetravelledhomeheavyhearted,tryingonthewaytodistracthis
thoughtsbythinkingupsubjectsforhisnextstory.
Not subjects: they abounded--swarmed like bees, hummed in his ears like
mosquitoes.Thereweretimeswhenhecouldhardlyseetherealworldforhis
crowdingvisionsof it. What he sought was rather the development of these
visions;todiscoverwheretheyledto.Hisimaginationworkedslowly,except
inthemomentsofburningunionwiththepowerthatfedit.Intheintervalshe
neededtimetobroodonhisthemes,toletthemroundthemselveswithinhim.
Andhefeltalsoincreasingly,ashislifewidened,howsmallhisprovisionof
experiencewas.Heneededtimeforhimself--
timetolethismindripen,tohavethingshappentohimself,andwatchthem
happenabouthim,withoutbeinginhastetointerpretordevelopwhathesaw.
He did not want to cut down all his trees for firewood. All this was still
confused and unexpressed in him; he felt it most clearly when, after his
imaginationhadseizedonasubjectandwaspreparingtoplungetoitsheart,
hewasbroughtupshortbyinexperience,byhisinabilitytorelatethethinghe
had fastened on to the rest of the world. Experiences, for him, were not
separable entities; everything he saw, and took into himself, came with a
breakingawayoftendrils,arendingoffilamentstowhichthesoiloflifestill
clung--andhewasfamiliar,asyet,withsofewinchesofthatsoil.Therestwas
alien territory. He never seemed able to get to the heart of his subjects. . . .
Andthen,whenhegotoutofthetrainatPaul'sLanding,therewasLauraLou
inthewinterdusk,alittlepinchedbythecold,butwitheyesofbluefire,lips
thatburnedonhis--andhewonderedifhehadn'tbeenmeanttobeapoet....
TwoorthreetimesaweekhewentuptotheofficeofTheHour.Tarrantwould
have liked him to come every day; but that would have put an end to his
writing.Hehadneverbeenabletoworkexceptinsolitude;andbesides,the
journeybackandforthwasaclearwasteoftimeandmoney.
He soon found that even these absences preyed on Laura Lou. She did not
reproachhim;shesimplypinedwhenhewasnotthere.Whenhegotbackhe
hadtotellhereverythingthathadhappenedtohim,describethepeoplehehad
met, repeat everything that everyone had said or done; and in doing so he
measuredagainhermentallimits,andsawthatthethingswhichcountedfor
himwouldnevercountforher.Shesmiledthemawayasoddities,likeawise
littlewifehumouringacrankyhusband;andhersmilealmostmadehimfeel
thatendearmentswereenoughforasoultoliveon.Almost,notquite.From
hischildhoodtherehadbeeninhimanirreduciblecoreofselfness(hefound
nootherwordforit),ahiddencaveinwhichhehoardedhissecretesttreasures
asachildhoardsstonydeadstarfishanddullshellsofwhichhehasonceseen
theseaglitter,thoughhecanmakenooneelsebelieveinit.EvenLauraLou's
ignorance,evenLauraLou'sembraces,couldnotcheapenthattreasure.
Hehad beencoming andgoinginthisway foraboutthreeweekswhen one
evening,onhisreturnfromtown,notfindinghiswifebelowstairs,heranup
toher.Shelayonthebed,asleep,intheattitudeoftrustfulcomposurewhich
hadmovedhimontheirfirstweddedmorning.Nearthebedhesaw
acrumpledpaperonthefloor.LauraLou'ssleepwassosoundthathepicked
upthepaperandsmootheditoutunderthelampwithoutwakingher.Itwasa
letter,bearingtheaddressofadrummer'shotelatSeattle,anditbegan:"Well,
inafewmoredaysnow,littlesweet,I'llbebackhomeagain,andIguesswe'll
have some good times round about Christmas, if Bunty Hayes is the man I
take him for. Say, honey, how long do they let you off that school for the
holidays...?"
Vancereadnofurther.Hestoodmotionless,lookingathiswife.Shehadnot
toldBuntyHayes;Mrs.Tracyhadnottoldhim.Vancesawthatbothwomen
had been afraid, and pity and wrath struggled in him, the wrath mostly for
Mrs.Tracy,thepity--well,yes,thepityforBuntyHayes.Thewomenhadn't
treatedhimsquarely....Vancelettheletterfallwherehehadfoundit....
Thenextday--hislastattheofficebeforeChristmas--hehandedinhisarticle
onEricRauch'sVoodoo.Hewasn'tsatisfiedwithit;heknewitwasn'tgood.
And he hated it because it was part of what he was expected to do for The
Hourinreturnforthesalaryhehadtohave.
Tarrant,evidently,didn'tcareforthearticleeither;thoughhewaspreparedto
do so later, Vance suspected, if good reasons were forthcoming. Vance had
alreadylearnedthat his chief's opinions were always twenty-four hours late.
Atfirsthehadthoughtitwasbecausetheymaturedasslowlyashisown;but
hehadbeguntosuspectadifferentreason.Somebody,notalwaysimmediately
available,didTarrant'sthinkingforhim--Vancewonderedifitwerehiswife.
HehadnothadmuchtimetothinkofMrs.Tarrantsincehisencounterwith
her on the afternoon when she had offered to read Dante with him. He had
heardnomoreofhersince;shenevercametotheoffice,andhehadnotimeto
go and see her, even had the idea occurred to him-- which it never did. At
most,hethoughtenviouslynowandthenoftherowsandrowsofbooksinthe
roomwhereshehadreceivedhim....
"Of course," Tarrant said, "there are things about it . . . certainly. . . . Only,
perhaps...well,Iseeyou'reatraditionalistatheart...."Hewavered."Nota
badthing,perhaps...thetabularasa'sgettingtobeanoldstory,eh?Well,I
don'tdeny..."
"Somebody asking for Mr. Weston," a voice came through the door of the
editorial retreat. Tarrant looked relieved at not being obliged to commit
himselffarther,andVance,surprisedatthesummons,wentbacktotheouter
office.
Bunty Hayes stood there. He was crimson and shiny in the face, as if from
coldordrink,andlookedlargerthanlifeinthecrampedspace.Heglaredat
Vancefuriously."Thatyou,isit?Doingthehighbrowact,eh?Callyourselfa
magazineeditor,doyou? Well,I'lltellyou whatIcallyou."He didso,ina
rushofoathsandimprecations.
Vancereceivedtheminsilence,andhissilencehadtheeffectofincreasingthe
other's exasperation. "Well, haven't you got anything to say, take it all lying
down,willyou?Well,I'llgiveyousomethingthat'llkeepyoufromgettingup
again...."Hisfist,redandshinyashisface,flewoutandcaughtVanceunder
theear. . . . The blowwasviolentbut unsteady--Vance noticed thatatonce.
Thefellowwas half drunk--drunk enough to be pitiable, though not (Vance
alsoperceived)tobeundangerous.ButtoVancehewouldhavebeenpitiable
evenifhehadbeensober.
"You damn dirty thief, you . . . Steal women, do you?" Vance saw him
squaringhimselfforanotherblow,andhisownfightinginstinctflamedup.By
thistimeBunty'sdenunciationshadsummonedtheslenderstaffofTheHour
to the outer office. The typewriter girl wailed, "It's a holdup," but the men
laughedandreassuredher...."Let'emalone--it'stheirfuneral,"Vanceheard,
asBunty'sfistleaptoutathimagain.Hisownwasraisedtoparryit.Hewas
thelighterandswifter,andhewassober--hehadalltheadvantages.Hisarm
dropped,andhedrewbackagainstthewall."Bettergohomenow--I'llseeyou
wherever you want," he said, his hands in his pockets, the welt of his first
blowspreadinguphischeeklikefire.
"Ho,acowardtoo,areyou?Standingtheretotakeyourlickingasifyouwere
sittingforyourportrait?I'llmakeaportraitofyou,byGod....Seemedoit,
boys...."
Tarrant's door opened and he came out. He was very pale, and his thin lips
weredrawntogetherinanarrowlineofdisdain.
"Weston--what's all this? I'll thank you to do your fighting elsewhere. . . ."
BuntyHayesbrokeintoarustylaugh."Fighting?Hewon'tfight.Thisisa
lickinghe'sgoingtoget...."Somebodyechoedthelaugh,andTarrant's
coldeyesturnedagaintoVance."Doyouknowthisman?"
"Yes,"saidVance.
"Knowme?God,that'sthetroublewithhim.AndI'vegivenhimachanceata
stand-upfight,andhewon'ttakeit.Thatso?"hechallengedVance.Vance,his
handsinhispockets,repeated:"That'sso."Hesawthedisdain
onTarrant'slipsturntocontempt,andhisbloodleaptupagain.Butinwardly
he still knew that, even if Hayes had been completely sober, he would not
havefoughthim.
Tarrantturnedtowardtheintruder."Yougetoutofhere,"hesaid."Getoutof
here?I'llseeyoutohellfirst--I'll..."
Eric Rauch, who had not been in the office, came running up the stairs. He
glanced about the group, bewildered, and turned to Vance. "What's up?" he
asked.Buntyshoutedback:"He'stakenmygirlandhewon'tfightmeforher,"
and there was another snicker among the lookers-on. It was manifest that
sympathywasveeringawayfromVance.
VancefeltRauch'sluminouseyesrestcuriouslyandnotunkindlyonhiswhite
facewiththeburningwelt.RauchsmiledalittleandputhishandonHayes's
arm."Ifyou'llstepthisway,"hesaid,withafaintwinkatthespectators,"I'll
takeyoudowntomyprivateoffice,andyoucantellmewhatit'sallabout."
He drew Hayes across the threshold, with a quick sign to the office boy to
follow. But Hayes had already collapsed--the tears were running down his
face, and he was putting his arm about Rauch's neck as the door closed on
them.
Tarrantturnedbacktohisprivateroom.Hishandonthedoorhepausedtosay
toVance:"Idon'tcareforanyexplanation.Butyouunderstand,ofcourse,that
ifthissortofthinghappensagain...Ican'thave..."
"Oh,ofcoursenot,"Vancestammered,halfdazed.
In a few moments Rauch came back, unconcerned, and lighting a cigarette.
His eloquent eyes rested again on Vance. "You must have been reading the
Russianslately,"hesaidwithhissoftincisiveness.Henoddedandpassedon
tohisdesk.
Vancesatdownathis,andbegantowritefuriously.Buthewasmerelymaking
meaninglessscratchesonthepaper.Thesepeoplehadofcourserealizedthat
Hayes was half drunk, and would no doubt think he had been unwilling to
fighthimatadisadvantage.Andonthewhole,theywouldregardthisasbeing
tohiscredit.ButVanceknewthattherealreasonwasdifferent:hehadrefused
to fight Hayes because he had read his letter. And that was something he
wouldneverbeabletoexplain.
On his desk lay a bundle of galleys--the proofs of "Coleridge Today." He
spreadthemoutbeforehimandtriedtosettoworkrevising.Anhourago
each word, each syllable, would have been subjected to the most searching
scrutiny;butnowthepagedancedmeaninglesslybeforehim....Suddenlyhe
laid down his pen. Something of dominating importance had steadied his
shaking nerves. What had Eric Rauch meant when he said: "You must have
beenreadingtheRussianslately"?Whowere"theRussians,"andhowwasit
that Vance had never read or even heard of them? At the mere thought, his
mindfeltfirmgroundunderitagain,andBuntyHayesandhisblusterwere
sweptawaylikechaffonthewind.
"I'll find out who they are before night," Vance resolved, and settled down
againtohiswork.
BOOKV
XXIV
Tarrant,that evening,got homelateand outof humor.Hislateness oughtin
reasontohaveannoyedhiswife,fortheywereofftoEaglewoodthenextday
for Christmas, and many holiday questions were still unsettled; but she met
himwithhervagueshort-sightedsmileandtheairofonewhomnothinginthe
worldcanannoy.
Atdinnersheascribedhissulkinessandtaciturnitytostrainednervesandthe
effort not to betray himself before the maid. The first number of the New
Hour--theyhadacceptedFrenside'srechristening--wastoappearonthesecond
of January, and the intervening week was a bad time for readjustments. No
wondertheeditorwasonedge.
Overcoffeeandhiscigarhebrokeout.Whatdidshesuppose?Thatdamned
protégéofFrenside's--thatMiddle-Westernyahoo...Weston,yes
...hadbeenturningtheofficeintoabeergarden....Yes,thisvery
afternoon.Outrageous...Why,adrunkenfellowcameinandtriedtofight
him. ..and, well,thefact wasWeston funkedit ... luckily, or theymight
havehadthepolicethere...andtheothermanwouldhavemademincemeat
ofhim....Disgustingbusiness...he'dtoldWestonwhathethoughtofit....
Overawoman,ofcourse...
"A woman?" Halo echoed, startled. "Why, he's only just married, isn't he?"
Well--thereyouhadit,herhusband'sshrugemphasized.Hewasthatsort,was
Frenside's little pet. . . . Messing about with women before his honeymoon
wasover...Thecigardrewlesswellthanusual;Tarrantstoodupandpaced
thefloorangrily.Disgusting...hewouldn'thaveit,herepeated.Goodmind
tosackthefoolonthespot...acowardtoo,thatwastheworstofit.Hethrew
thecigarintothefire,andgropednervouslyforanother....
Halo, leaning back in her deep armchair, looked up at him with indolent
curiosity. "Lewis, aren't you just simply overworked--overwrought?" she
suggested.
"Justsimply--?"
"Imeanhaven'tyouletyournervesgetthebetterofyou?Youlookdeadbeat."
Shemadeafriendlygesturetowardtheoppositearmchair."Sitdownandlight
yourcigar.Whotoldyouthispreposterousyarnanyhow?"
"Preposterousyarn?"Hepaledwithanger,andshesawhermistake."Noone
told me--no one had to. I was there. In the front row--saw the ruffian slap
Weston'sface,andWestonturntheothercheek.Precisely."
Halomused,perplexedbutstillunperturbed."Butthefactthattheruffianwas
drunk--isn'tthatthereason?"
"WhyWestonwouldn'tfight?"
"Notinyouroffice,atanyrate.Putyourselfinhisplace."
But Tarrant knew of few places worthy to put himself in. "Thank you, my
dear.Idon'thappentohavelowdownblackguardstryingtofightme."
"I should have thought any man might, accidentally." She paused and
reflected. "Anyhow, it doesn't seem to have bothered young Weston much,"
sheletdropwitharetrospectivesmile.
ThroughTarrant'sfreshcloudofcigarsmokeshesawhissuspiciousflush."I
don't know how much it bothered him; but he looked pretty thoroughly
ashamedofhimself."
"Hegotoveritquicklythen.He'dforgottenallaboutitwhenhewasherejust
now."
Tarrant swung round in surprise, and she continued, in the tone of leisurely
narrative:"Aboutanhourago.Hedashedinonhiswaytothetrain,staggering
under his mother-in-law's Christmas bundles. He'd called on very particular
business.You'llneverguess..."
"WhyshouldI?"Tarrantgrowled."Try--"
Heansweredbyanothershrug--thistimeofindifference.
"Well, he wanted to borrow Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. He'd never heard of
them till today. Or of Tchehov or the moderns, of course . . . It appears
someoneintheofficesaidsomethingabout'theRussians,'andassoonashe'd
finishedhisworkherushedtothepubliclibrary;butitwasclosed,sohecame
here.Rathersweetofhim,Ithought.Hedidn'tsayhowd'yedo,oranyofthe
uselessthings.Hejustsaid:'WhoaretheRussians?Iwanttoreadthem.Have
you got them?' And went off with his arms full." She sank back in her
cushions,andclosedherlidsonthepicture.Thefirecrackledcompanionably,
and Tarrant's cigar smoke wove its soothing cloud about their silence. Even
withhereyesshutshecouldguessthatsomethingwasslowlybreakingdown
the hard crust of his resentment. Expediency . . . uncertainty . . . it didn't
matter....Afteranintervalhesaid,moretohimselfthanher:"Well,Isuppose
hewasrightnottoletthatblackguardraisehellintheoffice....Onlyitgoes
againstmewhenamanseemstoshowthewhitefeather...."
"Ah, but you . . ." his wife murmured; and opened her eyes to meet his
gratifiedsmile.
Buthisfacewasnottheoneonwhichhergazerested.Hervisionwasturned
inward.Therehadhappenedtoher,suddenly,whatmayhappenatanystage,
howeverlate,intheacquaintance,eventheintimacy,betweentwopeople:she
hadseenVanceWestonthatafternoon--really,literallyseenhim--forthefirst
time. Before that, her glance--curious, then interested, then admiring--had
merely brushed him with a glowworm spark. She had caught, as it were,
glimpsesofhimintheblurofhimself;riftsand
gleams; a bit here, a bit there, of the outward accidents of his appearance.
Now,allatonce,shepossessedhimasawhole,seemedtodiscernbehindhis
fluidfeaturesthepowerwhichhadbuiltthem.Uneven,untruetoitself,ashis
face appeared, with its queer mixture of maturity and boyishness, instability
andpower,she suddenlybehelditinthesomethingwhich harmonizedthese
contradictionsandboundhimtogetherlikeastrongoutline.Wasthatperhaps
whatgeniuswas?Andthisboywiththetumbledbrownhair,theresolutelines
of brow and nose, the brooding impulsive lips and the strident untutored
voice--wasthisthewaygeniuswascut?...Herheartmissedabeat,asifit
had paused with her mind to consider him. "It's like seeing him dead," she
thought--so entirely had his face been stripped to the essentials. And she
remindedherself,withashiver,thatoneneverforgotasinglelineamentofa
faceonehadseendead...."It'smorethanIbargainedfor,"shemurmured,
andthen:"Coward!"
Shepulledherselfuptothesurfaceofhereyes,andgaveherhusbandbackhis
smile.
ThefirstnumberoftheNewHourmadeahit.TheNewYorkpublishingworld
rang with the figures of its sale; and the crown of its success was
"Unclaimed,"thequietstorybytheyoungauthornoonehadheardof.Awar
storytoo--fatalhandicap!Buteveryoneagreedthatitsoundedanewnote.The
public was fed up with new notes, yet dared not praise anything without
applyingthatepithettoit(soFrensideexplained)."Butitisanewnote;Isaw
it at once when he brought me the thing," Tarrant grumbled, adding
impatiently:"Ifitdependedonyoutogiveanewauthorastart--!"
"Where's my lantern?" Frenside mocked; but the sting of his mockery was
submergedinthewarmtideofpraisewhichmetTarrantwhereverhewent.He
was acutely proud of his first editorial achievement, and his gratified pride
transformedhiminhiswife'seyes."I'vealwaysknownhewasclevererthan
anybodyelse--allheneededwasachancetoshowit,"shethought,herhungry
imaginationclutchingateverysubstituteforbeliefinhim.Yetinaninnerfold
ofherheartsomethingwhispered:"HowmuchIwouldratherbelieveinhim
againsteverybody!"
Tarranthadsaidoneday,inaburstofsatisfaction:"Ithinkyououghttoinvite
that Weston boy here; we ought to have a party for the New Hour's first
birthday. People are beginning to ask about him; they're already wondering
aboutthePulsiferPrize--"andHalo,rousingherselffroman
indolence she could hardly explain, had echoed: "Oh, if you think so--
certainly."Inreality,shehadrelegatedthethoughtofVancetothebackofher
mind.Afterall,itwasherhusbandwhohadresuscitatedTheHour,notVance
Weston.Butthatwasthewayoftheworld:peoplefastenedononegoodthing
inareview--anewreviewespecially--andtalkedasifthatweretheprincipal,
ifnottheonly,reasonforitspopularity.Whereastherealcreditbelongedto
the editor, the guiding and selecting mind, in this case to the man who had
discovered Vance Weston and made him known, as he would in future
discover and make known many others. Halo flamed with impatience at the
public'sobtuseness....
"Oh,butofcourseyoumust...youmustletmeintroducehim....Ofcourse
hewon'tthinkanythingofthekind...."Mrs.Tarrant,slimandanimatedin
herblackdress,withlacywingsfloatingwiththemotionsofherarms,moved
awayfrom thehearth,where shehadbeen standing besidean exaggeratedly
tallyoungwomanwhoselittleheaddroopedsidewaysfromalongthroat,and
whose lids were cast down in deprecation on the rich glitter of her gold
brocade.
"Oh,Halo,no...Idon'tknow...Won'thethink...?Idowanttobeso
utterlyaloofandimpartial...."
"Well, but you will, my dear. You don't suppose every young writer who's
introducedtoyouinthecourseofthewinterwillimagineyou'resamplinghim
forthePulsiferPrize?"
"Howabsurd,Halo!Whenofcourseit'sallinthehandsofthecommittee..
..ButIdosowanttopreservemycompleteserenity,myutterdetachment.
..."Mrs.Pulsiferflungthewordsafterherinaseriesofstaccatocries.
Halo laughed, and moved through the groups of guests scattered about her
librarytothecornerwhereVanceWeston,hisbacktothecompany,stoodin
absorbedcontemplationofthebookshelves.Untilhehadenteredtherooma
few minutes earlier she had not seen him since he had come to borrow her
Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, and now, in the noise and sparkle of her first
evening party for the New Hour, he had become once more an exterior,
episodical figure, not the being whose soul had touched hers that other
evening. She even reflected, as she approached him: "He's shorter than I
remembered;hisshouldersaretooheavy...hegetsintofightsabout
women...."asifretouchinganidealizedportraitabruptlyconfrontedwiththe
reality.
"Vance," she said, and he turned with a start of surprise, as though he had
imagined himself alone. Halo smiled: "This isn't the Willows, you know--I
mean,"shehurriedon,fearinghemightmisinterprettheallusion,"you'reata
party,andlotsofthepeopleherewanttoknowyou;firstofall,Mrs.Pulsifer."
"Mrs.Pulsifer--?"heechoed,hiseyescomingbackfromalongwayoffand
restingonhishostessinslowrecognition.
"Theprize-giver.Overthere,inthegold-coloureddress.Come--poorJet'snot
alarming;she'salarmed."
"Alarmed?"
Haloslippedherarmthroughhis."Frightfullyshy,really.Isn'titfunny?She's
interrorlesteveryauthorwho'sintroducedtohershouldaskfortheprize--yet
shewantsthemallintroduced!"
"Butisn'ttheprizegivenbyacommittee?"
"Yes.Onlyshelikestolookthecandidatesover.Come!"
ItamusedhertointroduceVancetopeople.Itwasthefirsttimeshehadseen
him in a worldly setting, and she was interested in watching the effect he
produced--especiallytheeffectonMrs.Pulsifer.Onthewhole,givingparties
fortheNewHourmightturnouttobegreatfun.Shewasonlysorrythather
younglion,inhiseveningclothes,lookedunexpectedlyheavyandcommon..
..
Vancehungback."What'sshelike?"heasked,asifhisdecisiondependedon
that.
"Like?Idon'tknow...."Halohesitated."Yousee,she'snotanactualperson:
she'sasymptom.That'swhatFrennyandIcallthepeoplewhoareeverything
in turn. They catch things from another kind that we call germ- carriers,
people who get every new literary and artistic disease and hand it on. But
come:she'sawfullynice,really."
Vance still hesitated. "Do you think I'll like her?" he asked oddly; and Halo
laughedandwrinkledhershortsightedeyes."Doesonehaveto--atparties?"
"Idon'tknow,I'veneverbeentoapartybefore--likethis."
"Well,theimportantthingisthatsheshouldlikeyou.""Why?"
Shegaveaslightshrug,andatthatmomentthegoldenladyswayedacrossthe
roomandcameuptothem."Hehatestheveryidea,Halo--Iknewhewould!"
shecried.
"Vance, this is Mrs. Pulsifer. Jet, be good to him--he's my particular friend.
TakeherovertothatquietcornerundertheBuddha,Vance,andtellherhow
youwriteyourstories."Shesweptawaytoherotherguests,andVancefound
himselfseatedonadivaninadimrecess,withthislonggoldenwoman,half
frightenedandhalf forthcoming,and swayingtoward himlikeawind-swept
branch.Foramomenthehadbeenannoyedathishostess'srequest.Assoonas
he had entered he had gone straight back to the shelves from which, a few
weeksearlier,HalohadtakendownTolstoyandDostoyevsky.Nearthem,he
remembered noticing, were the Gogols, and there was one, "The Cloak,"
whichheheardthefellowsattheCocoanut Treetalkingabout ("AllTolstoy
andTchehovcameoutof'TheCloak,'"theadvancedonessaid.Well,hemust
read"TheCloak"then--)Assoonashiseyeslitonthatshelfheforgotwhere
he was, and that there were other people about. He stood running his hands
alongthebacksofthevolumesinthehappyagitationproducedbythesightof
unexploredbookshelves;andthenMrs.Tarrantcameandspoiltitall....
Butnowanewwaveofsensationsweptoverhim.Thenearnessofthisstrange
Mrs.Pulsifer,hersmallfeverishface,thecarelesssplendourofherdress,the
perfume it gave out, had caught his restless imagination. She interested and
excitedhimaspartoftheunfamiliarsettingwhichhehadhardlynoticedon
hisarrivalbecausethebookshadthrustthemselvesbetween,butwhichnow
stoleonhimwiththemagicoflowlights,halftints,easygreetings,allusive
phrases, young women made for leisure and luxury, young men moving
among them lightly and familiarly. The atmosphere was new to Vance--and
this woman, neither young nor old, beautiful nor ugly, but curious, remote,
likeapictureorastatuecomedownfromsomestoriedpalacewall,seemedto
embodyeverythinginthescenethatwasunintelligibleandcaptivating.
"Oh,butI'msureyououghtn't,"shemurmured,droopingawaybutleavingher
eyesclosetohis.
"Oughtn'twhat?"hestammered,entangledinhisconfusion.
"Totellmehowyouwriteyourstories;oranythingatallaboutthem.Halo's
soreckless--shedoesn'tstoptoconsider.AndofcourseI'mburningtoknow.
Butpeoplemightthink...yousee,Isimplymustpreservemyaloofness,my
entireimpartiality...orthey'dsayIwasinterfering....AndI'msureIshall
never like another story as much as yours. Oh, Mr. Weston, it's a dreadful
responsibility,"shewailed.
Vance was watching her curiously. He noticed the way her wandering eyes
weresetguardedlyunderasmallcontractedbrow("asiftheywerepeeringout
ofprison,"he thought, "and reckoning up the chances of escape"). The idea
amused him, and he had to rouse himself to answer: "You mean giving the
prize is a responsibility? But you don't, do you? I thought there was a
committee?"
"Ofcourse,ofcourse,butthat'sthereason.IfitshouldbesuspectedthatItried
toinfluencethem...andyetIdosoworshipwhatyouwrite!"Sheswayed
nearer,envelopinghiminagoldennetworkofsmilesandshimmers,imparting
in confidential murmurs common-places that might have been published on
the housetops, telling him what a burden her money was, how much she
neededsympathy,howfewpeopleshecouldtalktoasshewastalkingtohim,
howthemomentshehadreadthefirstlinesof"Unclaimed"shehadfeltthat
there was someone who would understand her--and how she envied his
heroine for being able, even at the cost of her last penny, to be herself, to
proclaimherloveopenly,tostarveherselfinordertobuildamonumenttothe
manwhohadneverknownshelovedhim."Howyoudoknowwomen!"she
murmured,swayingandgazingandretreating."Howintheworlddidyouever
guess . . . ? Several of my friends have told me your Tullia was my living
portrait....ButImustn'ttalkofthatnow.Won'tyoucomeandseemesome
day?Yes--thatwouldbebetter.I'msoalone,Mr.Weston--Idosoneedadvice
and encouragement! Sometimes I wish I'd never undertaken this prize
business;butwealthhasitsduties,hasn'tit?"
She had rambled on for a long time, yet not long enough to satisfy his
curiosity, when suddenly she started back. "Oh, but I mustn't keep you any
longer. . . . Why, there's Fynes over there staring at us!" she exclaimed in
agitation. "He's one of our committee, you know. And he never goes to
eveningparties--notrespectableones,Imean.Idaresayhe'scomeherejustto
lookyouover...."Shestoodupnervously.
"TristramFynes?WhowroteTheCornerGrocery?"Vanceinterruptedwitha
shockofexcitement.
"Yes, over there. That dreary little man by the door. You think him so
wonderful?"
"It'sabigbook."
"Oh, I daresay, but the people are so dreadfully unsympathetic. I suppose
you'llcallmeveryold-fashioned;butIdon'tthinkournovelistsoughttorob
us of all hope, all belief. . . . But come, everybody's waiting to talk to you.
Fynesseesthat,andhehatesit.Oh,IdohopeIhaven'tspoiltyourchanceof
theprize!"Sheheldoutherhand."Youwillcometoseeme,won'tyou?Yes--
atsixsomeday.Willyoucometomorrow?"sheinsisted,anddrewhimafter
heracrosstheroom.
Vance,infollowing,hadhiseyesonthesmalldrearymanbythedoor.Ofthe
many recent novels he had devoured very few had struck him as really
important;andoftheseTheCornerGrocerywaseasilyfirst.Amongdozensof
paltry books pushed into notoriety it was the only one entitled to such
distinction.Readersalloverthecountryhadfeltitsevidentsincerity,andits
titlehadbecometheproverbialepithetofthesmalltownatmosphere.Itdidnot
fully satisfy Vance; he thought the writer left untouched most of the deeper
thingsthethemeimplied;ifhehimselfhadbeenabletowritesuchabookhe
would have written it differently. But it was fearless, honest, preternaturally
alive;andthese qualities,whichtoVanceseemedthefoundationoftherest,
werethosehemostlongedtoacquire."Firststandyourpeopleontheirfeet,"
Frensidehadonceenjoinedhim;"there'llbetimeenoughafterwardtotellus
where they went." If only Tristram Fynes should be moved to say that the
peoplein"Unclaimed"stoodontheirfeet!
Vance'sheartthumpedfuriouslyasMrs.Pulsiferpausednearthegreatman.If
it should really turn out that Fynes had read "Unclaimed," and was here
becauseofit!
"Oh,Mr.Fynes--whatasurprise!Ididn'tknowyouevercondescended...Oh,
but you mustn't say you're going--not before I've introduced Mr. Weston!
VanceWeston;yes;whowrote'Unclaimed.'He'ssimplydyingtotalktoyou
about..."
Mr.Fynes'scompressedlipssnappedopen."AboutTheCornerGrocery,eh?
Well, there's a good deal to be said about it that hasn't been said yet," he
rejoined energetically, fixing his eyes on Vance. "You're one of the new
reviewers, aren't you? Do 'The Cocoanut Tree' in the New Hour? Yes--I
believeIsawsomethingofyourstheotherday.Well,seehere;thisisnoplace
foraserioustalk,butI'dbegladifyou'dcomeroundsomedayand
justletmetellyouexactlywhatIwantsaidaboutTheCornerGrocery....
Much the best way, you know. The book's a big book; no doubt about that.
WhatIwantpeopletoldiswhyit'sbig....Comeroundtomorrow,willyou?
I'mgoingtocutitnow...."
He vanished, and Vance stood dazed. But not for long. Others claimed his
attention, people who wanted to talk to him not about themselves but about
"Unclaimed."Theroomwasnotcrowded;therewereprobablynotmorethan
thirty guests in the library and the dining room beyond, into which they
wandered in quest of sandwiches and cocktails, coming back refreshment in
hand,orlingeringaboutthediningtable.ButtoVancethescenewassonew
thathe seemedtobe inadense throng;and the factof beinginit notasan
observer,butasthecentreofattentionandcuriosity,filledhimwiththesame
headyexcitementaswhenhehadtossedoffhisfirstshellfulofchampagne.
Theseeasyaffablepeoplewantedtoknowhimandtalktohimbecausehehad
written"Unclaimed,"becausetheyhadevenheard(someofthem)ofhisother
story, that old thing Tarrant had fished out of a back number and spoke of
republishing; they wanted to know what else he had written, what he was
doing now, when he was going to start in on a novel, when he would have
enough short stories for a volume, whether he had thought up any new
subjectslately,whetherhefounditeasiertowriteinabigcityorinhisown
quietsurroundingsathome,whetherNatureinspiredhimorhehadtobewith
peopletogetastimulus,whathisbestworkinghourswere,whetherhecould
forcehimselftowritesomanyhoursaday,whetherhedidn'tfindthatregular
workledtoroutine,whetherhedidn'tthinkarealartistmustalwaysbealaw
untohimself(thisfromthetwoorthreeoftheyoungerwomen),andwhether
hefoundhecoulddictate,orhadtotypeouthisownthings....
Vance had never before been confronted with so many exciting and
stimulatingquestions.Atfirsthetriedtoanswereachinturn,goingintothe
matterasfullyashefeltitdeserved,andseizingbythewayonthenewideas
itdeveloped; but by the time he had said,withhisslow shy drawl: "Why,I
guessIhaven'tgotfarenoughyettohaveworkedoutanyregularrules,butI
seemtofind..."or:"Well,sometimesIfeelasifIhadtohavealotofnew
facesandsightstostartmegoing,andthenagainothertimes.
.." he noticed thathisquestioners either lost interest,orelse, obeying some
ruleofbehaviourunknowntohim,felttheyoughttogivewaytootherswith
other riddles to propound. The result was that he had soon run the whole
gauntletofintroductions,andfoundhimselfatalittletableinthediningroom,
voraciouslyconsumingcocktailsandfoiegras,and
surroundedatlastbyfamiliarfaces--asthoughhehadswumthroughabright
tossing sea to a shore where old friends awaited him. Frenside was there,
grufflysmokingandsipping,EricRauch,glossyandvividineveningclothes,
and Mrs. Spear, white-haired and affectionately wistful, murmuring: "How
wonderful, Vance! To think the Willows should have led to this . . ." while
Halo,flittingby,pausedtointroduceanewarrival,ortosay,withahandon
hisshoulder:"HowdoesitfeeltobeIt?"
Bestofallwasit,wheneveryonehadgonebutafewfamiliars,todrawupto
the library fire, replenished with crackling logs, and listen to Tarrant and
Rauch discussing the future of the New Hour, Frenside dropping his
commentsintotheriftsof thetalk,and Mrs.Spearsaying,fromthedrowsy
depthsofherarmchair:"Butyousimplymustn'tdowhattheytellyou,Vance--
youmustjustdropeverythingandgiveyourselfuptoyournovel.What'sitto
becalled?Loot--ah,there'sawholepanoramainthat!Lewis,youmustreally
give him his head; you mustn't tie him down to dates. Let him have all the
timehewants.Remember,theSpiritblowethwhereitlisteth...andgeniusis
theSpirit,isn'tit,Frenside?"
It was past one in the morning when Vance sprang to his feet in comic
anguish. "Oh, say, what about my last train home?" They all laughed, and
Tarrantsaid,glancingathiswatch:"Nohurry,myboy--itleftanhourago,and
there'snoothertillsix-thirty,"whereatthegroupaboutthefirevanishedfrom
Vance'seyes,displacedbyLauraLou'swhitefacepeeringthroughherwindow
into the icy darkness. . . . "What a place to live in, anyhow!" he thought,
exasperatedatbeingthusforcedbackintoreality;andwhenthepartyfinally
broke up he accepted Eric Rauch's invitation to go on with him to "The
Loafers' Club," an all-night affair where they could talk and drink till the
dismalhourwhenthefirsttrainstartedforPaul'sLanding.Afterall,itwasn't
Vance'sfaultifhehadtoliveinthewilderness,andtheminutehe'dclearedoff
thatHayes debt hewasgoing to bring LauraLouback to NewYork, where
there were people a fellow could talk to, and who understood what he was
tryingfor.Itfilledhimwithsuddendespairtothinkthatofallhe hadheard
andsaidthateveningnotasyllablewouldmeananythingtohiswife.
XXV
Atthe"Loafers'"Vancehadfeltthereliefofafamiliaratmosphere.Inthelow-
ceilinged noisy room he found several of the fellows to whom Rauch had
introduced him at the Cocoanut Tree, and with them the sculptress girl,
Rebecca Stram, in a dirty yellow sweater and a cloud of smoke. They all
hailedhimjoyfully,theStramgirlbesoughthimanewtositforhisbust,and
thetalk rambledon,much as itdidin his father'sofficeat Euphoriaonidle
winter afternoons, go as you please, leaning back with your feet up and
developing what you had in your mind while the others smoked and swung
theirlegsandlistened:allaseasyandintelligibleascouldbe.
Yetthatwasnottheimpressionthatlasted.WhatVancecarriedbacktoPaul's
Landing was his bewildering adventure at the Tarrants', where everybody
talkedandnobodylistened,orsaidanythingparticularlyworthhearing,ifyou
thoughtitover--butwherethelookoftheroomsandthepeoplehadsomething
harmonious and long-related, suggesting a mysterious intelligence between
personsandthings,anatmosphereasheavywiththePastasthatofthelibrary
attheWillows.
Vancecouldn't,forthemoment,defineitmoreclearly;butitwassomething
impossibletoshakeoff,closeandhauntingasa scentoracadence,like the
perfume in Mrs. Pulsifer's clothes, or her curious unfinished ejaculations. It
madehimwanttolieandstareattheskyanddream,orelsestartupandwrite
poetry; not a big sweeping thing, such as he had dreamed of by the winter
ocean, but the wistful fragments that used to chant in his brain during his
solitarysessionsattheWillows.Yes...poetry:thatwaswhatwasstirringand
murmuringinhimagain.
When these impulses came they were overmastering. As he walked through
the still-torpid town and out to Mrs. Tracy's, lines and images rose in his
glowingmindlikeseagodsoutofasummersea.Hehadforgottenwherehe
was,ortowhomhewasreturning.Themorningwasgrayandcold,andwhen
hegotoutofthetownhestartedonarun,andreachedthehouseoutofbreath.
Atthe door hewasmetby Laura Lou,wide-eyedand tremblingalittle,but
forcingasmileofwelcome."Oh,Vanny--"Hecaughthertohim,and cried
out:"Givemesomecoffeequick,darling,andfixitupsoIwon'tbebothered
fortherestoftheday,can'tyou?I'vegottowriteapoemstraightoff...a
longone...beforethelightfades."
"Light fades? Why, it's early morning," she rejoined with bewildered eyes.
"Yes,butnotthatlight,"hesaid,looseningherarmsandsmilingatherasif
shewerearemotememory,andnotasentientcreatureonhisbreast.
Mrs. Tracy emerged from the kitchen. "I'll get your coffee for you. I guess
you'll need it, after one of your nights," she said severely. "Laura Lou, you
bettergostraightupnowandtryandgetalittlesleep,"sheaddedinthesame
tonetoherdaughter.
They had not understood; they would never understand, these women. Mrs.
Tracy,hewassure,wasrecallingthatothernight,hisnightofdissipationwith
Upton after the ball game; and Laura Lou perhaps had the same suspicion,
thoughshewouldneverowntoit.Andheknewhecouldnevermakeeitherof
themunderstandthatwhathewasdrunkwithnowwaspoetry....Mrs.Tracy
broughthiscoffeeintothediningroom(pipinghot,hehadtoadmit);thenshe
pokedupthefire,andlefthimathiswritingtable.Hisheaddroppedbetween
hishands,andhemurmuredtohimself:"Goldupongold,liketrumpetsinthe
sunrise.. . ."Ithad sounded gloriousashe crooned itover, drowsing inthe
train;butnowhewasnotsosure....WhenMrs.Tracy,fourhourslater,came
intosetthetableforthemiddaydinnerhestartedupoutofadeepsleeponthe
springlessdivan."No--she'smorebeautifulthanthat...."hestammered;and
hismother-in-lawadmonishedhim,asshesetdowntheplates:"Well,Iguess
you better not say anything more about that; and I'll hold my tongue if you
do."
Vancestaredandpushedbackhisrumpledhair."Itwassomebody--inapoem.
..."hesaid;andMrs.Tracyrespondedwithhermirthlesslaugh:"Thatwhat
theycallitinNewYork?Iguessyoubettergoupandgetwashednow,"she
added;andlookingattheblanksheetsscatteredoverhisdesk,Vancesawthat
he must have fallen asleep directly after she had left him, without writing a
lineofhispoem.
HehadnodifficultyinreassuringLauraLou.Shesawthat,asoneofthestaff
oftheNewHour,hehadtobepresentattheTarrants'party;heevencoaxeda
laughfromherabouthishavingmissedhistrain.Shewantedtoknowwhere
he had gone after leaving the Tarrants', and whether he wasn't worn out,
waiting around so long in the station; and he said evasively, no, he hadn't
minded, feeling that the mention of the "Loafers'" would only unsettle her
again.Hisownmindwasunsettledenough.Hewastormentedwiththepoem
hewantedtowrite,andexasperatedatthethoughtofbeingchaineduptohis
nextmonthlyarticle(theyhadtobereadyamonthahead),andthentoashort
story,andeventuallytoanovel,noneofwhich,atthemoment,hefelttheleast
desiretowrite.Howcouldheeverhavebeenfoolenoughtorunhisheadinto
suchanoose?Heremembered
Frenside's warning, and cursed himself for not having heeded it. What he
earnedattheNewHour(supposinghewereabletofulfillhiscontract)wasn't
enoughtokeephimandhiswife,ifevertheyhadtoleavePaul'sLanding--and
to leave Paul's Landing had become his overmastering desire. He wanted,
worse than ever, to be back in New York, back among all those fellows he
couldtalkto.HewantedtobeabletospendaneveningattheTarrants'--orat
the "Loafers'," for that matter--without being confronted at dawn by two
haggard women who thought themselves magnanimous because they didn't
cross-examine him like a truant schoolboy. He wanted to see whom he
pleased,gowherehechose,writewhathewanted--befree,free,free,inbody
aswellasmind,yes,andinheartaswellassoul.Thatwastheworstofit:if
life went on like this much longer his love for Laura Lou would fade to a
pityingfondness,andthentherewouldbenomeaninginanything.
Theafternoontrailedon.Vancecouldnotwrite;thepoemhadvanishedlikea
puff of mist. He sat staring at the paper, and smoking one cigarette after
another.Suddenlyherememberedthathehadpromised,thatveryafternoon,
tocallonMrs.PulsiferandonTristramFynes.AndherehesatinMrs.Tracy's
diningroom,lookingoutonherfrozengardenpatchandthecoldpurpleofthe
hills,anddoingnothingandseeingnolightahead.Towardduskhewasseized
withtheimpulsetosprintdowntothestation,jumpintothefirsttrainforNew
York, and pay his two visits. Then he remembered that city people were
alwaysfullofengagements,andcouldnotbefoundwithoutanappointment--
ormightbeannoyedifafellowbargedinwhenhewasn'texpected.Besides,
hedidn'tparticularlywanttoseeeitherFynesorthePulsiferwoman--whathe
really wanted was to breathe the atmosphere they breathed. But that was
anotherdifferencethatLauraLouwouldneverunderstand....
Thenextmorningwashisregulardayattheoffice.Butanobscurereluctance
kepthimfromgoingbacktoNewYork.WhenhegotthereEricRauchwould
askhimforhisnextarticle,ofwhichhehadn'twrittenthefirstline,thesubject
ofwhichhehadn'tyetchosen.AndTarrantwouldcallhimintohissanctum,
and want to know if they couldn't announce the title of his next short story
while"Unclaimed"wasfreshinpeople'sminds.Andhehadn'tevensettledon
a subject for his story either--there were so many to choose from, and none
thathefeltreadytotackle.Poetry...poetrywaswhathewasfullofnow....
HegotupearlyfromLauraLou'sside,flungopenthewindow,andleanedout
quaffing the wintry gold and scarlet of the sunrise. The sky looked
immeasurablyfar-off,pureandcoldabovethehills;butagainsttheiredgethe
gold and scarlet bubbled up in plumy clouds like the down from a fabulous
bird'sbreast.Whathadthecitytogivecomparedwiththat?Vancerecalledthe
summersunriseseenfromThundertopwithHaloSpear.Thenhehadstoodso
highthathehadseenthenewdayfloodtheearthbelowhiminallitsfoldsand
depths and dimmest penetralia; and beauty had brimmed his soul with the
samesplendour.Butnowhecouldonlylookoutthroughthenarrowopening
of a cottage window to a patch of currant bushes and a squat range of hills
behindwhichthesunseemedimprisoned-
-ashehimselfwasimprisonedbyfate.Fate?Nonsense--byhisownheadlong
folly.Only,whenthesirenssang,couldafellowhelplistening?
Andhowcouldhedistinguishbetweentheeternalbeautyanditsfalse
images,thebriefcreaturesitlitupinpassing?Somethingwhispered:"Create
theeternalbeautyyourself--thenyou'llknow..."andheshutthewindowand
turnedbackintothelow-ceilingedroomwherehislifebelonged.
Butlifewasnotalwayssuchabaffledbusiness.ThesecondnightafterVance's
returntherewasabelatedsnowfall,andthenextmorningwhenheopenedthe
shuttershelookedoutonaworldofwhiteablazeunderaspringsun.Itwasa
Saturday,thankheaven,andtherecouldbenoquestionofgoingtotheoffice.
Forforty-eighthoursheandLauraLoucouldrangeastheywilledthroughthis
new world. The winter, so far, had been harsh but almost snowless; now, in
earlyMarch,withthesmellofbudsintheair,Vancewasseeingforthefirst
time the magic of a snowstorm on the Hudson. If only they could climb to
Thundertop!Wasitpossible,hewondered?Thesnowwasnotsodeep,after
all;it would bemeltingsoon, under suchasun. What did LauraLouthink?
Shethoughtashedid:anythingthatseemedpossibletohimalwaysseemedso
to her. She had never before regarded a snowstorm as something to be
admired, but merely as an opportunity for fun; staying away from school,
sleighing,snowballing,andcoasting.Butnowthathepointedoutitsbeauties
hecouldseeshewasashamedofhavinglookeduponthemascreatedforher
ownamusement--asifshehadstrippedthehangingsfromasanctuarytodress
herselfupin.Vancewastouchedbyhercompliance,herpassionateeagerness
toseewhathesaw,hearwhatheheard--andthen,inspiteofhimself,irritated
byherinabilitytobemorethanhisecho.Buttodaythe
glory was so searching and miraculous that he was sure she must feel it.
"Come,wrapupwarmandwe'lltakesomehotcoffeeandsandwiches,andsee
how high we can scramble up the mountain." Mrs. Tracy had gone off to
spendanightwithUpton,andtheyhadthefreedomofthelittlehouse,andfelt
like lovers honeymooning again. Laura Lou filled the thermos with boiling
coffee, made some sandwiches with the cold meat Mrs. Tracy had left for
dinner, andgotinto herrubber bootsandher thickestcoat.Vance wantedto
hire their neighbour's cutter; but Laura Lou was frightened lest her mother
should hear of this extravagance, so they set out on foot, laughing and
swingingtheirjoinedhandslikeschoolchildren.Thesnowwassoft--toosoft
for easy walking. But Vance's feet were winged, as they had been when he
firstsawthesea;andLauraLousprangonafterhim,exultingandadmiring.
"Oh,Vanny--dolook!Isn'titjustlikepowderedsugar?Oroneofthoselovely
Christmascardswiththestuffthatsparkles?"Luckilyhehardlyheardher,saw
only the radiant oval of her face under the shaggy knitted cap pulled down
overcrimsonear-tips.
Thesnowclungdownytothehemlocks,rolledblindingwhiteovermeadow
and pasture, gloomed indigo blue on the edges of the forest, flashed with
prismatic lights where a half-caught brook fringed it with icicles. And
borderingthelane,astheyclimbed,howeachshootofbracken,eachbramble
and dry branch glittered and quivered with white fire! How the blue air,
purifiedby allthewhiteness,soaredover themoninvisible wings!Howthe
far-offskycurvedacleardomeaboveanearthwithallitssinsanduglinesses
blottedout,anearthrenewed,redeemedinsomegreatfinalabsolution!
Amanpassedinasleighandofferedthemalift.Hewasgoingtoafarmup
Thundertop way; and presently they were gliding by the gateposts of
Eaglewood,andVancerememberedhowhehadpassedthemforthefirsttime
withMissSpear,motoringupthemountaininthesummerdawn.Thesightof
the padlocked gates, the snow-choked drive, the hemlocks trailing white
branches with sapphire shadows, swept him back into that world to which
HaloSpearhadgivenhimthekey:theworldofbeauty,poetry,knowledge,of
all the marvels now forever shut off from him. He was glad when they
mountedhigher,andtheman,turninginatafarmyard,leftthemtoscramble
on alone. . . . "Better make the most of it--there'll be a thaw by night!" he
calledback,hisrunnerscuttingblackgroovesinthewhiteness.
They climbed on, laughing and chattering. It was so good to look at Laura
Lou,andfeelherwarmhandinhis,thatVance,aswashiswaywhenhewas
enjoying anything she could share, glowed with a sense of well-being. At
lengththeirascentbroughtthemtoadesertedshedstandingonasunny
ledgebytheroadside.Therewassomehayonitsdryfloor,andinthisshelter
theyunpackedtheirlunch,and comfortedthemselveswithhot coffee. Laura
Lou,curlingupagainstthehayinthewarmestcorner,tossedoffhercap,and
Vance, stretched out at her feet, watched the sun turn her hair to golden
filigree,andherlipstojewels."Happy?"hequeried;andhereyesraineddown
acquiescence....
HehadneverspokentoherofBuntyHayes'visit;shehadneverspokentohim
oftheletterhehadpickedupandread.Shehaddoubtlessansweredit,orin
somewaymadethetruthknowntoHayes;thatwasprobablythecauseofthe
sceneintheoffice....Vance,ashelookedupather,wasobscurelytroubled
bythethoughtthatbehindthatlowroundforeheadwithitsstrayingcurlsthere
lurkedawholehiddenworld.Thislittlecreature,whoseemedastransparent
asacrystalcup(hislittlecup,hehadoncecalledher)--thisLauraLou,likeall
herkind,wasapaintedveilovertheunknown.Andtohernodoubthewasthe
same;andsheknewinfinitelylessofhimthanheofher,ifonlybecausethere
was so much more to know. As he lay and brooded on these mysteries he
wonderedifthiswerenotthemomenttospeak.Hewasnotintheleastsorry
for what they had done to Bunty Hayes. In that respect neither Vance nor
LauraLouhad beenatfault;thepressureofdestinyhadbeentoo strongfor
them.Butthewaytheyhadtreatedhimsincewasnotpleasanttoremember.
Vancehadneverbeenabletogetthatpoorloveletteroutofhishead;andhe
wantedtofindoutifLauraLourememberedittoo.Ifhecouldhavebeensure
that her silence was due to the same feeling as his, and not to some mean
instinctofconcealment,itwouldhavedrawnthemsomuchcloser....Butas
hecontinuedtoliethereandtodrinkherdrowsysmile,hefeltinhimselfthe
samereluctance thathesuspected in her.. . areluctanceto mar theperfect
hour.Whynotsuffertheepisodetoburyitself?Therewerethingsinthelives
ofthe most decentpeoplethat left rawedges,that gave youthefeelingyou
hadwhenyou'dabandonedawoundedbirdinathicket....
"Come along!" Vance cried, jumping up. "I'd like to get to the next ridge,
wouldn'tyou?We'dseealltheworldfromthere....Let'stry."Andshesprang
toherfeetechoingjoyfully:"Yes--let's!"
After that the day seemed to rush by on silver wings. Such sparkling
tumultuous hours, sunlit, shadow-flecked, whirling past like the spray of
racingwaves....Vancecouldhardlybelieveitwhenthetwilightshutin
withoutawarning,thetwilightwithitsbleakshadowsandthedeathlikepallor
ofunlitsnow....
NottillthendiditoccurtohimthatLauraLoumustbedreadfullytired.He
oughttohavethoughtofitbefore.Hewasdismayedtoseehowhightheyhad
climbed;butastheysetoutonthelongdescenthergayvoicekeptonassuring
himthat,no,shewasfeelingfirst-rate,thatshe'dlovedeveryminuteofit,she
had,really...and,oh,Vanny,look,therewasthenewmoon:didheseeit?
Like a diamond brooch, up in the branches there--and over their right
shoulders too! What luck! . . . Her tone reassured him, and he laughed and
kissedher,slippinghisarmabouthertohelpherdowntheendlesswindings.
It was dark night when they reached the cottage, cold and hungry. Vance
fumbledunderthematforthekeyandpushedherintothepassage.Howblack
theinsideofthehousewas,andhowcold!Ithadbeenfun,havingtheplaceall
tothemselvesthatmorning;butnowevenMrs.Tracy'sdrydisapprovalwould
havebeenbearable,forthesakeofafireandsupper.
Vancestruckamatchandreachedforthehalllamp.Asheturnedbackafter
lightingithesawontheflooratelegramwhichhadbeenthrustunderthedoor
intheirabsence.LauraLoubenttopickitup."Iguessit'sfromMother,tosay
whattrainshe'llbebackby."Sheopenedthetelegram,andstoodlookingatit
withapuzzledfrown.Thenshereadaloud:"'Dreadfullyupsetnotseeingyou
yesterday what happened waited till nine must see you count on you same
hourMonday.Pleasetelegraph.Jet.'Whatafunnyname!"shecommented.
Vanceputhishandouthastily."Say--Iguessthat'smine.""Who'sitfrom?"
"Oh,justsomebodyIhadanappointmentwith.IguessIforgot."Shelooked
relieved,andheadded:"Say--it'scolderthanblazes.IguessIforgottomake
upthefiretoo,beforewewentout."Helaughedathisownjokeashedrew
herintothekitchen."There--yousitdownandI'llfixthingsupinnotime."
He pushed her into Mrs. Tracy's rocking chair, lit the lamp, raked out the
stove,shookincoalandkindlings,andrummagedformilk,whilesheleaned
backandwatchedhimwithduskyburningeyes.Shelookedlittleandfrailin
the faint light, and the returning heat brought out on her cheekbones those
scarlet spots which made the hollows underneath so wan. Why was it that
wheneversheandVanceattemptedtodoanythingjollytogethershegottired?
Thatsheseemedfatednevertokeepstepwithhim?
Hepouredoutthemilkandbroughtittoher."Here--swallowthisdownquick.
Thematterwithyouis,you'rehungry,"hetriedtojollyher;butsheshookher
head,andthesmileonhergauntlittlefaceturnedintoagrimaceofweariness.
"IguessI'mjusttired--"Alwaysthesamewistfulrefrain!"She'ssick,"Vance
thoughtwithsuddenterror.Aloudhesaid:"WaittillIheatthemilkup;then
maybeit'lltemptyou."Hethoughtwithashiverofthecoldbedupstairs,their
firelessroom,thetimeitwouldtaketowarmthehouse--andwhereonearth
couldhefindabricktoheatandputatherfeetwhenhegotherundressed?He
warmed the milk, pressed it to her lips again--but she pushed it away with
feverishhands,andtheeyessheliftedweredarkwithasortofanimalfright.
"Vanny--I'msotired.Darling,carrymeupstairs!"Shewoundherarmsabout
his neck, and her cheek burned on his. . . . Halfway up she clutched him
closer,andhefeltherwhisperinhisear."Itwasn'tawomanwhotelegraphed
you, Vanny?" "Woman? Hell no! The idea!" he lied back, stumbling up the
steps,pressinghertight,andshrinkingfromthetouchofhertears....
Hehadhadthevisionofabigpoemupthereonthemountain--yes,heknewit
wasbig.Lineafterlinehadsprunguplikegreatsnoweagleschallengingthe
sun,soaringininaccessibleglory:hehadonlytoliebackandwait,andoneby
onetheyplaneddownandshuttheirwingsinhisbreast.Andnow,stumbling
upthestairsinthedarknesswiththispoorchild,gettingherundressed,trying
tofindsomethingwarmtowrapherfeetin,wonderingwhyhereyeswereso
fixed,hercheekssoscarlet,wonderinghowyoufeltapulse,howyouknewif
anybodyhadfever...allthewhile,withanothersense,hewatchedthecrystal
splintersofhispoemmeltawayoneafteranother,asthespringicicleswere
meltingfromtheroof.
XXVI
Mrs.Tracywasnotexpectedbacktillthefollowingevening,andfortwenty-
fourhoursVancestruggledalone against the dark mystery of illness. As he
watched through the night beside Laura Lou, watched her burning face and
holloweyes,andsoughttoquiethertossingsandsootheherincessantcough,
hetriedtorecallwhathadbeendoneforhimduringhisownillness.Hetoo
hadbeenconsumedwithfeverdayandnight,weekafterweek;andhismother
andsistershadbeenalwaysthere,withcooling
drinks,softtouches,ingeniouswaysofeasinghismisery--andherehesatby
hiswife,hishandsallthumbs,hisshoescreaking,hisbraininafog,unableto
imaginewhatheoughttodoforher.
Atonemomenthereyes,whichhadclungtohissoanxiously,alwaysasking
forsomethinghecouldnotguess,suddenlybecametheeyesofastranger.She
looked at him in terror, and sitting up thrust him back. "Oh, go away--go
away!Youshan'ttakeVannyfromme...Isayyoushan't!"Forawhileshe
rambledon,battlingagainsttheobduracyofsomeinvisiblepresence;thenshe
sank back, and tears of weakness forced their way through the lids she had
shutagainstherhusband...Vancethrewhimselfdownbyherandheldherin
beseechingarms."LauraLou...LauraLou..
.Vanny'shere;love,it'sVannyholdingyou...."Withpassionatemurmurshe
smoothedthehairfromherforehead,andgraduallyhercontractedface
relaxed,andsheopenedherlids,andtriedtosmile."Isityou,Vanny?Don't
go...you'llneverleavemeanymore,willyou?"...Shedozedoff
onhisshoulderforafewminutesbeforethecoughwokeheragain....
When morning came she refused to touch the milk he had warmed, and lay
tossingand coughing in parched misery.Whatwas it? Bronchitis? His heart
sank:whatwasitpeopledidforbronchitis?Therewasnotelephone,andno
nearby neighbour except an old deaf woman who would probably not be of
muchuse--evenifVancecouldabsenthimselflongenoughtosummonher.He
decided to run across to the deaf woman's house, and bribe her grandson, a
lazyfellowwhowasnotongoodtermswithMrs.Tracy,tobicycletoPaul's
Landingforadoctor;butwheneverhetriedtocreepoutoftheroomhisshoes
creakedoraboardcried,andLauraLoustartedup."Don'tleaveme,Vanny--
you mustn't leave me . . ." and the heavy hours dragged on . . . Vance
rummagedoutanoldbottleofcoughmixture,andgavehersome;butitdid
notrelieveher,andthehandsshewoundabouthisneckgrewdrierandmore
burning. It was as if the fever were visibly consuming her, so small and
shrunkenhadherrestlessbodybecome.Ashesatthereandwatcheditwasher
turntobecomeastranger:thishaggardchangelingwasnotthetendercreature
whom he loved. This discovery of the frail limits of personality, of the
transformation of what seemed closest and most fixed in the flux of life,
dragged his brain down into a labyrinth of conjecture. What was she, this
beingsobelovedandsounknown?Somethinginhercravedforhimandclung
tohim,yetwhenhetriedtoreachthatsomethingitwasnotthere.Unknown
forcespossessedher,shewaswanderinginwayshecouldnotfollow....Now
and then he got up and replenished the stove; now and then he wet a
handkerchiefwithcolognewaterandputitonherforehead,orclumsilyshook
upherpillows.
...Buthediditallautomatically,asifhetoowereelsewhere,inwaysas
lonelyasthoseshewalked.... Was thiswhywewereallsofundamentally
alone?Because,aseachmightblendwithanotherinblissfulfusion,so,atany
moment, the empty eyes of a stranger might meet us under familiar brows?
Butthen,wherewastherealprimordialpersonality,eachman'sindestructible
inmostself?Wheredidithide,whatwasitmadeof,whatlawscontrolledit?
What was the Vance Weston who must remain himself though sickness and
sorrowandruindestroyedthefamiliarsurfaceofhisbeing?Orwasthereno
suchunchangeablenucleus?WouldheandLauraLouandalltheirkindflow
backfinallyintothatvastimpersonalDivinitywhichhadloomedinhisboyish
dreams?...But,oh,thoselittlehandswithtwiningfingers,thedeep-lashed
eyes, the hollows under the cheekbones-- those were Laura Lou's and no
other's,theybelongedtothebodyheworshipped,whoselovelysecretswere
his....
He started up with blinking eyes. The room was dark--the fire out. Had he
fallenasleepintryingtosoothehiswifetorest?Hebecamedimlyconscious
ofsomeone'shavingcomein;someonewhogropedabout,struckamatch,and
held a candle in his face. "For God's sake, Vance! Why are you here in the
dark?What'shappenedtomychild?"Mrs.Tracycried;andVance,stumbling
tohisfeet,brushedbackhishairandstaredather.
Butshehadnotimetodealwithhim.Inatriceshehadlitthelamp,revived
the fire, thrust a thermometer between Laura Lou's lips, and piled more
blankets on her. "What is she taking? What does the doctor say?" she
whisperedoverhershoulder.
"Shehasn'tseenthedoctor."
"Notseenhim?Youmeanhehasn'tbeen?""No."
"Howlong'sshebeenlikethis?""Sincelastnight."
"Lastnight?Andshe'sseennodoctor?Whendidyougoforhim?"Shedrew
closer,desertingherdaughtertoapproachherfiercewhispertohisear.
"Ididn'tgo.Shewouldn'tletmeleaveher...."
Thewitheringtwitchof Mrs. Tracy's lips simulated a laugh. "I guess it'dbe
luckierforherifyou'dleaveherandnevercomeback.Andnow,"sheadded
scornfully,"goandgetthedoctorasquickasyoucan;anddon'tshowyourself
herewithouthim.It'spneumonia...."
Five anxious days passed before Vance could think of his writing or of the
office. Mrs. Tracy had given him to understand that he'd better go back to
work,foralltheusehewastoherorLauraLou:clutteringupthehouse,and
nomorehelptoanybodythanawoodenIndian....Butitseemedpartofhis
expiationtositthereandlethersaysuchthings.Hesuspectedthat,thoughshe
railed at him for being in the way, it was a relief to have him there, to be
scoldedandfoundfaultwith;besides,nowandthentherewassomethingfor
him to do: coals to carry up, provisions or medicines to fetch, tasks not
requiringmuchquicknessofwitor hand.. ..Heknewthat Mrs.Tracywas
justifiedinblaminghimforLauraLou'sillness.Thedoctorsaidhehadbeen
crazy to drag her up the mountain through the snow, and expose her to the
nightairwhenherstrengthwasloweredbyfatigue.Shehadn'tmuchstamina
anyway; and the long climb had affected her heart. The doctor took Vance
asidetotellhimthatthissortofthingmustn'thappenagain;andVancesaw
Mrs.Tracygloatingovertheadmonishment.Well,lether...hedeservedit.
Duringthosedaysitseemedtohimthathehadatlastgrownfromaboyintoa
man.Hewasnotquickinpracticalmatters;suchlessonscametohimslowly;
but this one sank deep. He was frightened to think how completely, when
Beauty called, that celestial Beauty which haunted earth and sky, and the
deeps of his soul, he forgot everything else, and rushed after the voice
unheeding.Whenthathappened,histwoworldsweremergedinone,orrather
theworldofdailydutiesvanishedunderamoreoverwhelmingreality.Butthis
wouldnolongerbeso.Hewouldschoolhimselftokeepthetwoapart....
Atlength, whenLauraLou, proppedagainst herpillows,first lookedathim
withreassuredeyes,hedecidedtogotoNewYork.Hearrivedempty-handed
attheoffice,forhehadnotbeenabletowritealineintheinterval.Hehoped
toseeEricRauchfirstandexplaintohim;butRauchwasout,andVancewas
toldthatMr.Tarrantwasexpectinghim.Rauchwaspliantandunderstanding;
buthischief,toVance,wasariddle.Youcouldnever
tellifhewasgoingtoturnhisnervousbrilliantsmileonyouormeetyouwith
afaceofstone.HegreetedVancewithasurpriseinwhichthelatterscented
irony,andwhentoldofLauraLou'sillnessutteredthepropersentimentsand
atoncejerkedbacktobusiness."Toobad...toobad...yes,ofcourse....
Mywifewouldhavebeengladtodoanything...Well,nowtheanxiety'sover
Ihopeyou'lltakeholdagain.Somuchtime'sbeenlostthatyoureallyoweitto
us..."andsoon.Vancelistenedinsilence.Whatcouldhesay?Atlengthhe
began:"You wouldn'tcaretohave me change 'round and writesomepoetry
for you?" Tarrant's face expressed a mixture of dismay and resentment.
Poetry? Good God, everybody wanted to write poetry for them: magazine
poetrywastheeasiestthingonearthtoturnout.Andherewasafellowwho
could do something else; who had a real gift as a short-story writer; as a
novelist, perhaps--and wanting to throw away a chance like that to join the
anonymous crowd in the Poets' Corner! Really, now, didn't Weston
understand?Hewasboundtothem;boundtodoacertainthing;hadsigneda
contract to that effect. Contracts weren't one-sided affairs, after all. . . .
Tarrant's frown relaxed, and he laid his hand on his contributor's shoulder.
"Seehere;you'vehadabadshake-up.It'sliabletohappentoanyofus.Only,
oncea fellow'sformedthe habitofwork he keepsstraightat it.. . through
everything. . . ." Tarrant straightened his shoulders, as though discreetly
offeringhimselfasanobjectlesson."Nowthen,Weston,bettergetbackhome
asquickasyoucan,andtieuptoyournextshortstory.If'Unclaimed'doesn't
pulloffthePulsiferPrize,whoknowsbutyou'vegotsomethingupyoursleeve
that will? I understand that Fynes asked you for an article on The Corner
Grocery.Thesaleofhisbookhasfallenofflately,andhecountsonustobuck
itup.Ifyou'dmadeahitwiththearticleitwouldhavegivenyouabigboost
fortheprize.ButI'vehadtoturnRauchontoitbecausetherewasnotimeto
wait.Soyoucanputthatoutofyourmindanyhow,andjusttackleyourstory,"
Tarrantendedonanoteofaffability.
"Allright,"Vancemumbled,gladtobegone.
He had a couple of hours to spare before his train, and began to wander
throughthestreets,ashehadduringhisfirstdarkdaysinNewYork.Thenhe
hadbeenunknownandstarving;nowhehadaname,hadfriends,aroofover
hishead,andawifewhoadoredhim;yethisinnersolitudewasdeeperthan
ever.Wasthefaulthis,orwasitlatentinthisdreadfulsystemofforcingtalent,
tryingtosqueezeeverydropoutofitbeforeitwasripe;theprincipleofthe
quickturnoverappliedtobrainsasitwastorealestate?Ashewalked,theold
dreamoftheNewYorknovelrecurredtohim:thejostlingcrowds,theswarm
ofmotors,thehugearrogantmassesofmasonry,rousedhisimagination,and
hethoughttohimself:"Tarrant's
right;whatafoolIwastotalkpoetrytohim!"HestoodonacornerofFifth
Avenue while the motors crawled up and down in endless procession, and
lookingintooneslowlymovingcarriageafteranotherhewonderedwhatsort
ofalifeeachofthesewomen(theywerealmostallwomen)led,wherethey
weregoing,whattheywerethinkingof,whatotherliveswereinterwovenwith
theirs.Oh,tohaveayeartodreamofitall,withoutputtingpentopaper!But
evenayearwouldnotbeenough;whatheneededwastoimmersehimselfin
life without so much as remembering that it must some day bring him in a
return,toliveascarelesslyasallthesewomenrollingpasthimintheirmotors.
...
Mrs.Pulsifer--shewasthatkind,hesupposed.Thethoughtremindedhimof
hertelegram.Hehadn'tanswereditbecausehehadn'tknownwhattosay.But
nowthathewasintown,whynottrytoseeher?Funnywoman--she'dsigned
thewire"Jet,"asifheandshewereoldfriends!Luckyshehadsuchaqueer
name;ifshe'dbeencalledMabel,oranyrealwoman'sname,he'dneverhave
heardtheendofitfromLauraLou....Herememberedheraddress:shelived
onlyafewstreetsoff,hehadplentyoftimetocallbeforecatchinghistrain.
She'd be out, probably; but then he could write and say he'd been. . . . He
reached the street and identified the number as that of an impressive wide-
frontedhouse,thekindhehadoftencuriouslygazedatinwanderingaboutthe
city,butneverimaginedhimselfentering.Herangthebell,andinstantly,asif
hehadbeenexpected,theheavydoubledoorofglassandwroughtironflew
open, and a tall young man in a dark coat with silver buttons barred the
threshold.
Mrs.Pulsifer?No--shewasn'tin,theyoungmansaidinsurprise,asifVance
hadaskedsomethingalmosttooridiculoustobeworthanswering.Butashe
spoke,atthefarendofaperspectiveofmarbleandduskyrugsandmajestic
stairwayVancesawafigureflitforwardandhesitate."Oh,Mr.Weston--itis
Mr.Weston?Why,Iamout,really...I'mdueattheotherendofnowhereat
this very instant. . . ." Mrs. Pulsifer stood before him, wrapped in furs, her
longjadeearringsmakingherfacenarrowerandmoreanxiousthaneverunder
theswathingsofhercloselittlehat."Butdocomeinallthesame--justfora
minute,won'tyou?"Hertonewashalfaggrieved,halfentreating,sheseemed
towanthimtosayyes,yetnottoforgetthatshehadjustcauseforresentment.
Vancewaslookingcuriouslyabouthim;atthatmomentthehouseinterested
himmorethanitsowner."Wellgoupstairs--youreallydon'tmindwalking?"
shequeried,implyingthatofcoursetherewasaliftifhedid;andhefollowed
heracrossthemany-colouredpavingofthehall,upthewidestaircasewithits
ornaterailofsteelandgilding,acrossanother
hallandthroughagreatroomwithshadowyhangingsfulloffiguresandtrees
and colonnaded architecture. Vance had never been in a house so big and
splendid, never even imagined one. From the room of the tapestries they
passedtoanother,allindarkwood,withpicturesonthepanels,andgreatgilt
standardsbearinglights;andfinallycametoasmallcircularapartmentwhere
therewereforced flowersin porcelainbowls,morepictures,books,andlow
wide armchairs covered with dove-coloured silk. Vance gazed at it all,
enchanted."Doyoulivehereallalone?"heasked.
She looked at him in surprise. "Do I--? Why, of course, yes. How funny of
you!Whatdidyouthink--?"
"Ithoughtmaybethehousewasdividedupintoapartments,it'ssobig.""Well,
itmightbe,"sheadmitted,sighing."SometimesIwishitwere.It's
horriblylonely,havingitalltomyself."Shesighedagain."Ihatebig
houses,don'tyou?"
Hiscaptivatedeyeswerestillscanningthelongvistaofrooms."No;Ithink
they'regreat--when they're like this . . .allthespaceand the height and the
quietness...."
Shegavealittleconsciouslaughandinstantlyadoptedhisview."Oh,youlike
it?I'msoglad;because,yousee,thesebigroomswerereallyrathermydoing.
I insisted on the architect's carrying out my own ideas--giving me all the
elbowroom I wanted. They have so little imagination." The tall young man
withthesilverbuttonspresentedhimself,asifnoiselesslysummoned,andshe
dropped her furs on his arm, said: "Yes--tea, I think; and I'm at home to no
one,"tossedoffherhat,andsankintooneofthedove-colouredchairs.Thetall
youngmanclosed thedoorbehindhim,andshutVance andhis hostessinto
flower-scentedprivacy.Mrs.Pulsiferturnedheranxiouseyesonhervisitor."I
supposeyouwerehorrifiedatmytelegraphing?"
"Horrified;no,why?"
"IwasafraidyouthoughtIoughtn'ttoaskyoutocomehereatall,becauseof
thatwretchedprize;thatyouwereafraidofwhatpeoplemightthink....ButI
reallywantedmostdesperatelytoseeyouaboutFynes.Yousee,practicallyhe
hasthecastingvote;theothersjustcringetohim.AndIknewhe'dtoldyouto
comeandseehimaboutanarticleorsomething,andwasveryhuffybecause
youdidn't;andIwantedtowarnyou,andtobegyoutodowhateverheasks.
Andwhenyoudidn'tansweranddidn'tcomeIwasperfectlymiserable....I
knowI'magoose,Iknowwhatyou'llthink..
..ButI can't help it; I do so want you to get theprize,"shesaid,suddenly
leaningforwardandlayingherhandonhis.
Hertouchstartledhim,forhewasstillabsorbedincontemplationoftheroom.
"Oh,that'sever sokindofyou,"hestammered,feelingheoughtto takeher
hand;butithadalreadyslippedfromhim,andshehaddrawnbackwithoneof
heruncertainmovements."It'sallwrong,Iknow,"sheinsisted."Ioughtn'tto
careaboutit,Ioughtn'ttohaveanyopinion;you'dthinkeversomuchbetter
ofmeifIstoodaloofandletthecommitteedecide."Foramomentawistful
smilegaveherthinfacethecontourofyouth."ButthefirstmomentIsawyou
Ifelt..."Shestoodup,movingawaywithherlongstep."Shouldyouliketo
seetherooms?Doyoucareforpictures?"
Yes, Vance said, he'd likefirst-ratetolookround. He explained eagerly that
he'dseenhardlyanypictures,andwantedtogetholdofsomegoodbookson
the history of painting . . . maybe she could lend him some? But he was
checkedbytheperceptionthatMrs.Pulsiferwasnolongerlistening,andthat
thiswasnotthesortofthingshewantedtohear.Hewasdimlyawarethathe
hadmissedhischance,thathadheimprisonedherhandtheprizewouldhave
beenhis."Rauchwouldneverhavelethergo,"hethought,halfamused.But
she was too unlike the other women with whom he had exchanged easy
caresses. She seemed bloodless, immaterial, as if she were a part of her
splendidandunfamiliarsetting,andmightatanymomentrecedeintooneof
the great gilt frames at which he stood gazing. She poured out a glib patter
aboutthepictures,herpictures;herConstable,herRembrandt,herVerMeer,
other names he didn't catch in his excitement; and then led him to another
room to show him her "moderns," bewildering things with unknown names,
butallalludedtointhesameproprietarytone,asiftheartists,whoeverthey
were, had worked, like her architect, only for her and under her direction.
Somepainters,notrepresentedonherwalls,shespokeofwithcontempt,said
shewouldn'thavethematanypricethoughotherpeoplefoughtforthem--she
wasdeterminedto beherself,tobeindependent,nomatter howhardpeople
triedtoinfluenceher.Didn'thethinkshewasright,shechallengedhim?Her
nervous chatter disturbed his enjoyment of the pictures, and prevented the
isolation of soul in which great impressions reached him. What a pity, he
thought! His heart was beating and murmuring with new harmonies; but
perhaps another day, when he got to know her better, and they felt more at
easewitheachother,hecouldaskhertolethimcomeback.Andhethought
how different it would have been if the woman at his side had been Halo
Tarrant, who always made him see beautiful things more clearly instead of
blurringthem.
"Ah--here's tea. But you'd rather have a cocktail?" Mrs. Pulsifer said. They
hadreturnedtothecircularroom;bythefirestoodatablewithcupsofthin
porcelainaround a shining urn.Vancesaidhe'd rather havetea.Noone had
everofferedittohimatthathour,anditamusedhimtowatchherslimhands
movingoverthetray,shakingtheteaintotheteapot,regulatingtheflameof
the urn. It reminded him of a scene in an English novel he had read at the
Willows.Hebegantothinkofhisownnovelagain,andhadtorousehimself
tohearwhatMrs.Pulsiferwassaying--somethinghurriedandconfusedabout
being lonely, and hating her riches because they shut her off from the only
people she cared to see . . . and worshipping genius, and wondering if he
wouldn'tpromisetobehergreatgreatfriend,andcomeoftentoseeher,and
tellherallherfaults,andlethertalktohimaboutherself--which,itseemedto
Vance,wasjustwhatshehadbeendoingforthelasthour....Hemumbled
thathewaseversograteful,andwouldbegladifshe'dlethimcomebackfor
anotherlookatthepictures;butshesaidifitwasonlytoseethepicturesthat
hewantedtocomehewaslikeeverybodyelse,anddidn'tcareforherbutfor
herhouse,andwhatshewantedwasafriendwhowouldfeelthesameabout
her if she lived in a hovel; but she supposed she wasn't clever enough to
interest the only kind of people who interested her, and must just make the
bestofthisdreadfullonelinessthathermoneyseemedtocondemnherto....
Her eyes filled, and for a moment she seemed to break her unreality and
become human. "Oh, don't say that--you mustn't, you know--" he began,
puttingdownhiscupandmovingnearer;butashedidsohecaughtsightofa
clockoverhershoulder,andexclaimed:"God,I'veonlyjustgottimetocatch
my train-- Sorry . . . I've got to run for it. . . ." Her face changed again,
narrowing into distrust and resentment. Why did he have to catch that
particulartrain?Weren'tthereplentyofothers?Sheforcedasmiletoaddthat
peoplealwaysmadeexcuseslikethatwhentheywereboredwithyou,andshe
supposed she'd bored him . . . or else why wouldn't he stay? But Vance
remembered a promise to get back with a new tonic for Laura Lou. No, he
couldn't,hesaid;therewasnotraintillmuchlater,andhehadhiswork....
"Ah,yourwork;howIenvypeoplewithwork,worklikeyours,Imean...
."Herfacesoftened,sheleftherhandinhis."You'llreallycomeagainsoon,
won'tyou?You'llcomenextweek?Youshallhavethepicturesalltoyourself;
I'llhideaway,andyouwon'tevenseeme,"sheassuredhimlaughingly;andhe
thankedherandfled.
By the time he reached Paul's Landing the whole episode had faded into
unreality.Weretherehouseslikethat,womenlikethat,pictureslikethat?The
chiefimpressionthatremainedwasthatshehadsaidhecouldcomebackand
seethepictures....
Mrs.Tracywaswaitingonthethreshold,andhehandedherthetonicwiththe
satisfaction he felt when he had managed not to forget an errand. How was
Laura Lou? Had the day been good? Pretty good--yes; but she was a little
tired.He'dbetternotgoup:shewassleeping.Heturnedintothediningroom
andwentovertohisdesk,hismindfullofthingshewantedtoputdownwhile
theywerehot.ButMrs.Tracyfollowed,andafterstraighteningtheplateson
thedinnertablecameandstoodbythedesk."Therewassomeonecalledtosee
you,"shesaid.
"Someone--who?""BuntyHayes."
ThebloodrushedtoVance'sforehead.Hayes--thecheekofthefellow'shaving
followedhimhere!"I'llhavetofightitoutwithhimafterall,"hethought.
"He'sbeenaftermealready,attheoffice.Hesayshewantstofightme."Mrs.
Tracysmiledcoldly."Hedidn'twanttofightyoutoday.Whathe
wantedwashismoney."
Vance'sangerexploded."Hismoney?I'mdoingallIcantoearnitforhim.IfI
coulddoitquickerIwould."
"That'swhatItoldhim,"sheagreed,stillcoldly."Well,didhegoawayafter
that?"
Mrs. Tracy hesitated, and wiped her wasted hands on her apron. "Not right
off."
"Why--whatelsedidhewant?""ToseeLauraLou."
"LauraLou?Thefellow'simpudence!"Vancelaughedindignantly.
"Hewasn'timpudent.Hewassorryshewassosick.Icouldseehowbadhe
felt."
Vancefoundnothing to say.Theremembrance of the crumpledletteron the
floorofhiswife'sroomshotthroughhimwiththesamepangasbefore.
"Well,I'vegottogettowork,"hesaid.
XXVII
LauraLou'sconvalescencewasslow,herillnessexpensive.Upton,appealedto
byMrs.Tracy,saidallhissavingshadgoneintobuyingaFord,andhecould
do nothing for them for the present. Vance knew that his mother-in-law
expectedhisfamilytocometohisaid.SheascribedLauraLou'sillnesstohis
imprudence,andfeltthat,sincehisendlessscribblingbroughtinsolittle,he
ought to get help from home. But Vance could not bring himself to ask for
money, and his reports of Laura Lou's illness produced only letters of
sympathyfromhismotherandgrandmother,andknittedbedjacketsfromthe
girls.Hisfatherwrotethattimeswerebadinrealestate,andofferedagainto
tryandgethimajobon the Free Speaker if he would come back to live at
Euphoria.Andtherethematterended.
Atoddswithhimself,hegroundoutadullarticleon"TheNewPoetry,"the
resultofrandomreadingamongtheworksoftheCocoanutTreepoets;butit
satisfied neither him nor the poets. He tried to make a plan for Loot, but it
crumbled to nothing. He was too ignorant of that tumultuous metropolitan
worldtopictureitexceptthroughothereyes.Ifhecouldhavelivedinitfora
while,ifsomebodylike Mrs.Tarranthad lethimintoitssecrets, perhapshe
couldhavemadeabookofit;butanythinghedidunaidedwouldhavetobe
borrowedfromotherbooks.Besides,hedidnotwanttodenounceortoshow
up,asmost ofthe"society"novelistsdid, buttotakeapartthe worksof the
machine,andfindoutwhatallthosepeoplebehindthesplendidhousefronts
signifiedinthegeneralschemeofthings.Untilheunderstoodthat,hecouldn't
writeaboutthem.HebroughthisdifficultytoEricRauch."UnlessIcanthink
their thoughts it's no use," he said. Rauch looked puzzled, and seemed to
regardthedifficultyasanimaginaryone."Funnytomeyoucan'tgetholdofa
subject,"hesaid;andVancerejoined:"Oh,butIcan--hundreds;theyswarm.
Onlythey'reallsubjectsIdon'tknowenoughabouttotacklethem.""Well,I
guessyou'reinthedoldrums,"Rauchcommented;andthetalkended.
One day someone related in Vance's presence a tragic episode which had
happenedinagroupofstrollingactors.Thepicturesquenessofitseizedonhis
imagination,andhetriedtobringittolife;buthereagainhelackedfamiliarity
withtheconditions,andhisardourflagged.Fellowsatthe
CocoanutTreetalkedalotaboutworkingupasubject,aboutdocumentation
andsoforth;butVanceobscurelyfeltthathecouldnotgooutonpurposeto
hunt for local colour, and that inspiration must come to him in other ways.
PerhapsatalkwithamanlikeTristramFyneswouldgivenhimhisclue.He
wroteandaskedFynesforanappointment;buthereceivednoanswertohis
letter.
Mrs.Pulsiferdidwriteagain.Sheaskedwhyhehadn'tbeenbacktoseeher,
andsuggestedhiscomingtodine,givinghimthechoiceoftwoevenings.The
letter reached him on the day when he had taken his watch and his evening
clothes to a pawnbroker. He wrote that he couldn't come to dine, but would
callsomeafternoon;andshewirednamingthenextday.Whenhepresented
himself he found the great drawing rooms empty, and while he waited he
wanderedfromonetoanother,gazinganddreaming.Arthadhithertofigured
in his mind as something apart from life, inapplicable to its daily uses;
something classified, catalogued, and buried in museums. Here for the first
timeitbecameabreathingpresence,hesawitsrelationtolife,andcaughta
glimpseoftheuseofrichesandleisure--advancedeventotheassumptionthat
itmightbethetaskofoneclasstohavethesethingsandpreservethem,tolive
like a priestly caste isolated for the purpose. The stuffed dove on the gilt
basket,hethought,revertingagaintohisoldsymbolofthemysteriousutility
oftheuseless....Mrs.Pulsifer'sarrivalinterruptedhismusings,andgavehim
asurprisedsenseoftheincongruitybetweenthetreasuresandtheircustodian.
She looked worried and excited; drew him at once into the circular sitting
room,andimpetuouslyaccusedhimofbeingsorryshe'dcomeback,because
nowhe'dhavetotalktoherinsteadoflookingatthepictures.Vancehadno
conversationalparries;hecouldonlyhavekissedherorquestionedherabout
herpossessions;thelattercoursehesawwouldbedispleasing,andhefeltno
temptationtotheformer,forshehadacold,andherface,inthespringlight,
lookedsallowandelderly."Idolikewanderingaboutthishousefirst-rate,"he
confessed.
"Well,then,whydon'tyoucomeoftener?IknowI'mnotclever;Ican'ttalkto
you;butifyou'dcomeanddineI'dhavejustafewoftherightpeople;brilliant
people--Frenside, and Lewis and Halo Tarrant, and Sibelius, from the
Metropolitan,who'dtellyoueversomuchmorethanIcanaboutmypictures."
She became pathetic in her self-effacement, and when she repeated: "Why
won't you come? Why do you always refuse?" he lost his head, and
stammered:"I...no....Ican't--Ican'tdinewithyou."
"You mean you've got more amusing things to do?" she insinuated; and he
answered:"Lord,no,notthat.It's--I'mtoopoor,"hefinallyblurtedout.
Therewasasilence.
"Toopoor--?"sheechoed,withanuncomprehendinglook.
He laughed. "For one thing I've got no evening clothes. I've had to pawn
them."
Mrs.Pulsifer,whowassittingnearhim,andleaningforwardinhersolicitous
way, involuntarily drew back. "Oh--" she faltered, and he divined that her
embarrassment was greater than his. The discovery somehow put him at his
ease.
"Oh,youdon'tneedtolooksofrightened.It'sathingthathappenstopeople,"
he joked. She murmured: "I'm so sorry," and her lips seemed shaping
themselves for the expression of further sympathy. She leaned nearer again,
and he saw she was feverishly wondering what she ought to say. Her
helplessness touched him; in her place he would have known so well! She
seemedacreaturewhoseimpulsesofpityhadbecomeatrophied,andwhowas
vainlytryingtogive hima signofhuman feelingacross thedesertwasteof
hervastpossessions."I'm so sorry," she began again,inawhisper, as if her
voicewasunabletobridgethedistance.Vancestoodupandtookafewsteps
acrosstheroom.Ifshewassorry,really--assorryasallthat....Hestoppedin
frontofher,andbegantospeakinalowconfusedvoice."Factis,I'mdown
andout--ohjusttemporarily,ofcourse;I'vehadunexpectedexpenses...."He
paused, wondering desperately why he had ever begun. Mrs. Pulsifer sat
beforehimwithoutmoving.Evenhereyesweremotionless,andherstartled
hands. He wondered if no one had ever spoken to her of such a thing as
poverty."Lookhere,"hebrokeout,"ifyoureallybelieveinme,willyoulend
metwothousanddollars?"
Hisquestionechoedthroughtheroomasifhehadshoutedit.Aslighttremor
passed over Mrs. Pulsifer's face; then her immobility became rigid. The
situationclearlyhadnoparallelinherexperience,andshefeltherselfpitifully
unequaltoit.ThefactexasperatedVance.Itwasallwrongthatthesepeople,
the chosen custodians of knowledge and beauty, should be so stupid, so
unfittedfortheirtask.Hehungbeforeherirresolute,angrywithhimselfand
her."I'dbettergo,"hemutteredatlength.
Shelookedup,disconcerted."Oh,no...pleasedon't.I'msosorry...."
Themeaninglessrepetitionirritatedhim."Idon'tsupposeyoueverbeforemet
afellowwhowasdeadbroke,didyou?Isupposethatyoungmanwhoopens
the door has orders not to let them in," he jeered, flushed with his own
humiliation.
She grew pale, and her hands moved uneasily. "I--oh, you don't understand;
youdon't.Itryto...toliveuptomyresponsibilities....Thesethings...I
haveadvisers...amostefficientstaffwhodealwiththem....Everycaseis--
is conscientiously investigated." She seemed to be quoting a social service
report.
"Oh,I'm not acase,"Vanceinterrupted drily. "I thoughtyouacted as if you
wantedmeforafriend--that'sall."
"Idid--Ido.Ionlymean...."Sheliftedhorrifiedeyestohis."Yousee,there's
theprize....Ifanyoneknewthat...thatyou'dcometomeforassistance...
thatI...."
"Oh, damn the prize! Excuse me; I'm sorry for my blunder. There are times
whenamanseesabigditchinfrontofhimanddoesn'tknowhowhe'sgoing
togetacross.I'mthatman--andIspokewithoutthinking."
Hereyes, still on his,grewmoist with tears. "It'ssodreadful--your being in
suchtrouble.Ihadnoidea...."Sheglancedabouther,almostfurtively,asif
the efficient staff who dealt with her "cases" might be listening behind a
screen."IdowanttohelpyouifIcan,"shewenton,hardlyaboveawhisper.
"Ifyou'llgivemetimeI...IthinkIcouldarrange...butofcourseitwould
havetobequiteprivately...."
He softened at the sight of her distress. "You're very kind. But I guess we
won'ttalkofitanymore.I'vebeentiredandworriedandIstartedthinkingout
loud."
"But it's so wrong, so cruel, that you, with your genius, should have such
worries. I don't understand." She drew her brows together in anxious
conjecture."Ithoughttherewassuchademandforwhatyouwrite,andthat
youhadapermanentjobintheNewHour."
"Yes,Ihave.Butthey'rejuststartingandcan'tpaymuch.AndI'mpledgedto
givethemwhateverIwrite.ButI'dhavepulledthroughallrightifotherthings
hadn'tgonewrong.AndIwillanyhow."Heheldhishandout."You'vehelped
mealot,justlettingmelookatthosepictures.Thankyouforit.Good-bye."
Thedecisionofhismannerseemedtocommunicateitselftoher,andshestood
up also, pale and almost beautiful under the stress of an unknown emotion.
"No,no,notgoodbye,Idowanttohelpyou--Iwantyoutotellmewhatitis
that'swrong....Iknowyoungmenaresometimesfoolish."
Shelaidonhisarmabejewelledhandofwhichoneringwouldhavebought
hisfreedom.
Vance gave an impatient laugh. "Foolish? Is that what you people call not
having enough money to keep alive on? What's wrong with me is that my
wife'sbeendesperatelysick...sickforweeks.Thatcosts."
Therewasasilence.Mrs.Pulsifer'shandslippedaway.Shedrewbackastep
and slowly repeated: "Your wife? You mean to say you're married?" Vance
madeagestureofassent.
"ButIdon'tunderstand.Younevertoldme....""Didn'tI?MaybeIdidn't."
Shecontinuedtolookathimuncertainly."HowcouldIknow?Ineverthought
. . . you never spoke. . . . But perhaps," she faltered, a curious light of
expectancyinhertiredeyes,"it'sbecauseyourmarriageis--unhappy?"
Vancecolouredhotly."God,no!I'monlyunhappybecauseIcan'tdoallIwant
forher."HethoughtafterwardthathehadneverlovedLauraLouashedidat
thatmoment.
"Oh. . . . I see. . . ." he heard Mrs. Pulsifer murmur; and he was vaguely
consciousofthefadingofthelightfromhereyes.
"Well,good-bye,"herepeated.Sheseemedabouttospeak,tomakesomesign
todetainhim;buthernarrowedlipsletpassonlyafaintechoofhisgood-bye.
Itdriftedmournfullyafterhimashewalkeddowntheendlessperspectiveof
tapestriedandgildedemptinesstothehallbelow,wherethetallyoungmanin
darkclothesandsilverbuttonswaswaitingwithaperfectlymatchedtwinto
throwbackthedoubledoors.Vancewonderedironicallywhethertheyadded
totheirothermysteriousdutiesthatofinvestigatingMrs.Pulsifer'scases;but
heknewthathisown,atanyrate,wouldneverbebroughtupforexamination.
OneofthefellowsattheCocoanutTreegavehimthenameofamoneylender;
and a few days later he had a thousand dollars in his pocket. He told Mrs.
TracyhehadenoughtopayoffHayes,andaskedforhisaddress.Shegaveit
withoutcomment,andVance,thankfultoavoid
explanations,returnedtoNewYorkthenextdaytodischargehisdebt.Hehad
noideahowhewasgoingtomeettheinterestontheloan;butheputthatout
ofhismindwiththeeaseofaninexperiencedborrower.
Theaddressledtoanarrowofficebuildinginanuptownstreet,where,across
the front of an upper floor, he read: "STORECRAFT," and underneath:
"Supplies Taste and saves Money." He was admitted to a small room with
roughcast walls, a sham Marie Laurencin, slender marquetry chairs, and a
silvered mannequin in a Spanish shawl. There he waited till a fluffy-headed
girl in a sports suit introduced him to an inner office, where Bunty Hayes,
thronedatadesk,wasexplainingtoanothergirl:"Chanel,sixalmond-green
Engadines: Vionnet, duplicate order apricot charmeuse pyjamas. . . ." He
brokeoffandsatstaring."Patou,sixpastel-blueRivieras-
-"hewentonautomatically;then,withachangeoftone:"Allright,Gladys;
we'llfinishuplater."Thegirlvanished,andheturnedtoVance."Say,Ididn't
seeitwasyou,firstoff."
"Maybeyou'retoobusy,"Vancebegan.
"No,but Iwasexpectingafellow witha new styleof bust-restrainer.Never
mind; sit down." He pushed a chair forward. His manner was curt and
businesslike,butnotunfriendly;andVancefeltlessateasethanifhehadnot
beenmetwithanathemas.
"You'reonanewjob,"hesaidtentatively.
BuntyHayesleanedback,swungaroundinhisswivelchair,andthrustouthis
legs, displaying perfectly creased trousers. He had grown stouter, and had
largeyellowhornspectaclesandcarefullyvarnishedhair."Why,yes,"hesaid.
"Factis,there'smoreinit.Folkswanttotourintheholidays;buttheywantto
shopalltheyearround,andtheyallwanttoshopinNewYork.Hundredand
fiftymillionof'emdo.Storecraft'stheanswertothat.Here:seenoneofour
cards?We'regoingtomovetoFifthAvenuenextyear.Ifyouwanttodobig,
yougottoseebig.That'smymotto.Seehere,now;youliveinthesuburbs:
well,we'rethecommuter'sProvidence.Supplyyouwitheverythingyoulike,
fromyourmarketingtoapicturegallery.We'regoingtohaveanartguildnext
year:buyyouroldmastersforyou,andallyougottodoistodrivethehooks
intoyourparlourwallandinvitetheneighbours."
Vancehadnotseatedhimself.Hedrewoutthemoneyandlaiditonthedesk.
"Here'swhatweoweyou,"hesaid.
"Oh, hell--" said Hayes. The two men faced each other uneasily. At length
Hayes nodded and said: "A'right," and put his hand out toward the money.
"Who'llImakethereceiptoutto?"heasked,evidentlynotknowingwhatto
say next. Vance said to Mrs. Tracy, and stood with his hands in his pockets
leaningagainstthedoor.Hayeswrotethereceiptrapidly,blottedandhandedit
toVance."Well,that'sover,"heremarkedwithanattemptatease.Vanceput
thepaperinhispocket.AshewasturningtogoHayesstoodup,andbegan,in
anembarrassedvoice:"Seehere--"
"Yes?"
"I--yourwifewassickwhenIcalledtheotherday.Iwasrealsorry.Wishyou'd
tellher."
"Sure," said Vance, nodding and swinging out of the door. On the stairs, it
cameoverhimthathehadbehavedlikeanoaf,andhewashalfmindedtoturn
backandtellHayes--Tellhimwhat?Hedidn'tknow.Buthevaguelyfeltthere
wasascorebetweenthemwhichthemoney,afterall,hadn'twipedout....
He had never yet spoken to Laura Lou about Hayes. On his return that
evening,whenhewenttoherroom,hemadeuphismindtodoso.Theroom
lookedpleasant.Therewasafireinthestoveandabunchofspringflowerson
the table. Laura Lou's bed was neatly made, and she lay on the old steamer
chair which he had brought up from the porch. Mrs. Tracy was below,
preparing supper, and the house, sometimes so dreary and repellent to him,
seemedpeacefulandhomelike.LauraLou'sfacelitupathisentrance."Here--
I brought you these. They're good and juicy," he said, pulling a couple of
orangesoutofhisovercoatpockets.Hebenttokissher,andshepressedher
cheek against his. "Oh, they're beauties, Vanney; but you oughtn't to have
spentallthatmoney."
Hesatdownbesideher,laughed,andsaid:"I'vespentalotmore;I'vepaidoff
whatwasowingtoHayes."
She flushed a tender rose colour. "Oh, Vanny! The whole of it? Isn't that
great?"Herhandstightenedinhis."Mother'llbecrazyglad.Butit'ssuchalot
ofmoney;howintheworlddidyoumanage?"
"OhI...Ifixeditup.Itwaseasyenough.Igotanadvance."
Thevagueanswer seemedtosatisfyher,andsherestedherheadagainst his
shoulderandstrokedtheorangeswithherfreehand."Well,that'sjustgreat.I
guesstheymustthinktheworldofyouattheoffice,"shesaidplacidly.
Vance held her to him. After a pause he said: "I always felt sorry for the
fellow,somehow."
Throughherdeeplashesshelookedup,asthough wonderinga little. "Well,
youdon'thavetoanylonger,doyou?"
Vancefeltasifshehadmovedawayfromhim;butinrealityherlightbody
was pressed more closely to his. "Why, I don't know," he said, "I guess we
didn'tactanytoosquaretohim,apartfromthemoney.Iwishnowwe'dgiven
himwarning...orsomething..."
Shegavealittlewriggleofcontentment."Well,yes,Iwishwehadtoo;butI
guessitwassafer,thewaywedidit."Forher,atleast,theoldscorehadbeen
completelywipedout.Hewondered,asheclaspedher,ifanyonewouldever
feelaboutthedeepinvisiblethingsashedid.
Tostifleconjecturehebentdownandkissedherlidsshut,oneaftertheother.
That funny lonely woman in the big house, who had imagined he was
unhappilymarried...!
Next morning the expressman deposited at the door a big basket with the
"Storecraft" label, full of perfumed grapefruit and polished mandarins and
boxesofCaliforniandelicacies.
XXVIII
Vancestoppedshort.ItwasthreeyearssincehehadseentheWillows.
Junesunlightlay on the weed-grown lawn. Turrets and balconiesshowedin
uncertain glimpses through layer on layer of overlapping lilac fringes. A
breathofsweetness,whichwouldhavebeenimperceptiblebutforthemillion
ofcalyxesexhalingit, enveloped the old house as faintly but pervasively as
thecolour of the wistariaflowers.As he stood thereotherperfumes stole to
him:thepurpleburdenoflilacs,thewarmdripofwhite
laburnums,andthathauntingsyringasmellwhichwaslikethenoiseofbees
onathunderyday.Onthefluctuationsofthebreezetheycamenowfromone
corner,nowanother,ofthedesertedshrubberies,waylayingVancewiththeir
loveliness.Butinsidethehousewasthatmagicalroom,andalltheshadowy
powerofthepast.
HehadnotbeenneartheWillowssincethedaywhenthelateMr.Lorburnhad
accusedhimofstealingthebooks.TheplacelayonthefarthersideofPaul's
Landing,andhisdailytramptoandfromMrs.Tracy'stookhimnowherenear
it.Hehadbeenforbiddentoreturnthere,andifhedisobeyeditmightcosthis
mother-in-lawherjob.Yetthereweredayswhenhecouldhardlytrusthimself
not to scramble over the gate and try for a loose shutter or a broken latch.
Thoseunusedbooks,rowonrowinthedarkness,drewhimunbearably;sohe
walkedinotherdirections.
Mrs.Tracy,somedaysearlier,hadbeenseizedwithinflammatoryrheumatism.
LauraLouhad towaitonherand dothecookingandwashing;besides,she
had never got back her strength since her illness, and it would have been
imprudenttoexposehertothecoldofanuninhabitedhouse.Fortwoweeks
the Willows remained unvisited; and the thought was misery to Mrs. Tracy,
who was sure another caretaker would supersede her. Laura Lou said:
"Mother,it'stoosillynottosendVanny,"andVanceaddedjocosely:"EvenifI
hadstolenthosebooks,itwouldbetooriskytryingitonagain."Mrs.Tracy,
turning her face from him, said: "The keys are under the pincushion in the
upperright-handdrawer...."Andtherehestood.
Laura Lou had charged him not to forget what he was there for. He was to
openwindowsandshutters,airtheroomsthoroughly,andmakesurethatno
harm had come to the house since Mrs. Tracy's last visit. The two women
prudentlyrefrainedfromlayingotherdutiesonhim:forthepresentthehouse
mustgoundusted."Justyoutellhimtotakeagoodlookround,so'tthathired
man'llseesomebody'sgothiseyeonhim,andthencomestraightbackhere,"
wasMrs.Tracy'sinjunctiontoherdaughter;whointerpretedit:"Darling,all
yougottodoistowalkround,andtellhereverything'sallright."
Vancedecidedtobeginbyageneralinspection.Hepassedfromroomtoroom,
letting light and warmth into one melancholy penumbra after another,
wakening the ghosts in old mirrors, watching the live gold of the sun
reanimate the dead gold of picture frames and candelabra. Under the high
ceilingsofthebedrooms,with their carved bedsteads and beruffleddressing
tables, he had now and then an elusive sense of life, of someone slipping
throughdoorsjustahead,ofawhisperofsandalsacrossfloweredcarpets,asif
hisapproachhaddispersedalingeringcongressofmemories.
InMissLorburn'sdressingroomhepausedbeforetheornatetoiletsetwiththe
porcelain swan in a nest of rushes. "She dreamed of Lohengrin, and saw a
babyinthebulrushes."LorrySpear'scommentcamebacktohim.Funny-
-he'dneverseenLorrySpearsincethatday;thefellowowedhimtendollars,
too. Vance wondered what had become of him. . . . In the circular boudoir,
with the upholstered blue satin armchairs and those gay lithographs of
peasantsdancingandgrape-gathering,helingeredagain,
trying to imagine the lady in her youth, when the rooms were bright and
dustless,andsheworeoneofthoseruffleddressesloopedwithcamellias..
.."AndsheendedreadingColeridgeallalone...."
Hesatdowninabluearmchairandclosedhiseyes.Ifheshouldopenthemon
theyoungElinor--paleandeager,thedarkbraidsloopedalonghercheeks!As
hesatthere,HaloTarrant'sfacesubstituteditselffortheother.Slimanddark-
braided,withflowingdraperiesandsandalledfeet,sheleanedinthewindow,
lookingoutthroughthewistariafringesforsomething,forsomeone....Vance
stood up, brushing away the vision. Weren't we all like Elinor Lorburn,
lookingout,watchingforwhatnevercame?Ah,buttherewerethebooks--the
booksthathadsufficedher,afterall!Hemovedaway,asifwithherhandin
his--that shy compelling virgin hand--moved through the rooms, down
passagesandstairs,andacrossthepatternedparquetofthedrawingroomsto
the library. He reached out to open the shutters, and as he did so Miss
Lorburn'shandslippedfromhis,andheknewthatwhenheturnedshewould
no longer be beside him, young and wistful, but withdrawn into her frame
above the mantelpiece, the mature resigned woman with the chalk lights on
foreheadandlappets.ThewomanwhoreadColeridgealone....
Anorderly handhad effacedthetraces ofhisformer passage.The bookshe
hadtakendownwerebackintheirplaces,thefurniturehadbeenstraightened.
ButonthefringedtablecoverofgreenvelvettheColeridgestilllayopenat
"KublaKhan,"thegold-rimmedspectaclesacrossthepage.AtouchofHalo's
piety....
In the three-year interval much else had happened. Vance had read and
studied,newavenuesofknowledgehadopenedtohim,linkingtogethermany
unrelated facts, and Miss Lorburn's library was now less interesting in itself
thanbecauseofthesadwomanwhohadlivedthere.Sad,butnotshrunken.He
lookedupather,andshelookeddownwithherlargefull-orbedeyes,theeyes
ofonewhohasrenouncedbutnotrepined....Whatasubject,ifhecoulddo
it!He dropped again intothehighbacked armchair wherehehadsat on that
firstday."ThisisthePast--ifonlyIcouldgetbackintoit...."Shemusthave
beenlovelywhenshewasyoung,withasharp
austerelovelinesslikeHalo's;herlongthinhandsfullofgiftsforsomeone,or
elsestretchedoutemptytoreceive.Noone,apparently,hadwantedtogiveher
anything, or to receive what she offered; yet instead of withering she had
ripened. Her books, and some inner source of life, had kept her warm--he
wonderedhow?Andsuddenlyaqueerideacametohim:theideathatHalo
Tarrantknew.Wasthefancysuggestedbysomeresemblanceintheirfeatures,
or a likeness in expression, something about the eyes and hands? Halo had
thosesamehands,long,likeherface,andopeningwidewhensheheldthem
outtoyou,asifreadytoreceiveorgive,whilehereyesquestionedwhichit
was to be. Yet Halo was married, had presumably fulfilled her destiny. . . .
And so, perhaps, had the other woman in her different way. That was what
explainedthelikeness--orelsemadeitallthemoreobscure....Theafternoon
shadows wheeled unnoticed across the lawn. Vance continued to sit
motionless, letting the secret forces move within him. Whenever he could
surrender to his creative fervour it always ended by carrying him to the
mysteriouspointwhereeffortceased,andheseemedjusttohavetoholdhis
breathandwatch.
Hewatched....
When he got home, Laura Lou said why'd he been gone so long, and her
mother was fretting, and would he go upstairs right away and tell her
everything was all right? He stared at her out of his dream, as if she had
spokenanunknownlanguage."Oh,yes--allright...everything'sallright..
.."Thatnighthesatuplate,writing,writing....
Mrs. Tracy's recovery was slow, and she got into the habit of entrusting to
VancetheweeklyinspectionoftheWillows.Thenewowner,oldMissLouisa
Lorburn, never came, never asked questions; and the Spear family, since
Halo'smarriage,wereeitherinNewYork,ortoobusywithweekendpartiesat
EaglewoodtothinkofpolicingtheWillows.SometimesLauraLouwentwith
Vance,accompaniedbythewomanwhohelpedwiththeTracys'washing:they
leftVanceinthelibrary,andLauraLousangouttohimtojoinherwhenthe
cleaningwasover.Onotherdayshewentbyhimself;andbeforelongthekeys
wereinhispocketinsteadofbeingunderMrs.Tracy'spincushion....
Duringthoselongsummerhoursinthelibraryhewasconscious,forthefirst
time,ofasortofequilibriumbetweentherushofhiswordsandimagesand
thesubjecttheyweretoclothe.Atfirsthedidnotwrite
regularly;hewasfeelinghisway.Muchofhistimewasspentinastateofrich
passivity;buttheinnertravailneverceased....Onthedayswhenhehadto
report at the office he seemed to be walking in his sleep. New York had
becomeashadow,amirage,thefermentingactivitiesofhiscomradesofthe
CocoanutTreeasmeaninglessasdancingtowhichonecannothearthemusic.
Asubtletranspositionhadsituatedhisonlyrealityinthatsilentroomamong
thebooks.HetoldRauchhehadstartedanovel,andonhisnextvisithewas
uncomfortablyawareofeditorialcuriosityandimpatience;butasyethecould
shownothingtosatisfythem."Iguessthebook'llbecalledInstead,"hemerely
stated;onwhichRauchremarked:"Well,itdon'tsoundexactlyincandescent..
. ." Vance drew a breath of relief when, toward the end of the month, he
learned that the Tarrants were starting for London and Paris to pick up new
stuffforthereview....
Rauch had said the title didn't sound incandescent. Well, the book, if it was
ever written, wouldn't be incandescent either. Vance was more and more
conscious of some deep-seated difference that cut him off from the
circumambient literary "brightness," or rather left him unsatisfied by it.
Perhaps he could have written like those other clever fellows whose novels
andstorieshedevouredastheyappeared.Hewasquickatpickinguptricksof
language and technique; and his reading had taught him what Frenside had
meantbysayinghewasatthesedulousage.Apethesefellows--yes,heknew
hecould!He'dtriedhishandatit,notalwaysquiteconsciously;butthoughhe
wassometimesratherpleasedwiththeresulthealwaysendedbyfeelingthatit
wasn't his natural way of representing things. These brilliant verbal
gymnastics--or the staccato enumeration of a series of physical aspects and
sensations--they all left him with the sense of an immense emptiness
underneath,justwhere,inhisownvisionoftheworld,thedeepforcesstirred
andwovemen'sfate.Ifhecouldn'texpressthatinhisbookshe'dratherchuck
it,andtryrealestateorreporting....Someofthenovelspeopletalkedabout
mostexcitedly--PriceofMeat,say,alreadyinitsseventieththousand,orEgg
Omelette,whichhadoweditsstarttopulpitdenunciationsandthequarrelofa
PrizeCommitteeoveritsexactdegreeofindecency--well,hehadbegunboth
books with enthusiasm, as their authors appeared to have; and then, at a
certainpoint,hadfeltthehollownessunderfoot,andsaidtohimself:"No,life's
notlikethat,peoplearenotlikethat.Therealstuffiswaydown,notonthe
surface."WhenhegotholdofFaustattheWillows,andcametothepartabout
the mysterious Mothers, moving in subterranean depths among the primal
formsoflife,heshouted
out: "That's it--the fellows that write those books are all Motherless!" And
LauraLou,hurryingdowndusterinhand,rushedinexclaiming:"Oh,Vanny,I
thoughttherewereburglars!"
HegotintothewayofgoingoftenerandoftenertotheWillows.Heknewthat
heriskedlittleindoingso.TheTarrantswereinEurope,andnobodyelsewas
likely to bother him. If he could have carried off the books he wanted the
temptationwouldhavebeenlessgreat;butevensohewouldhavebeendrawn
back by the contrast between the house at Paul's Landing, where there was
neitherbeautynorprivacynorpeaceandthistranquilsolitude.Onhissecond
visithebroughtwithhimasupplyofpaperandnotebooks.Theyremainedon
MissLorburn'stable, besideher Coleridge;andthetemptationto returnwas
doubled by the knowledge that he would always find them there, not tidied
awayormixed upbyinterferinghands,butorderlyand receptive,ashehad
left them. As soon as he was seated at the table his mind became clear and
free,accidentalpreoccupationsfellfromit, andhewasfacetofacewith his
vision.
To explain his daily absences he told Laura Lou that he was needed at the
office.Tarrant,hementioned,hadbeencalledtoEuropeonbusiness,andthey
were shorthanded. . . . A few months ago he would have been ashamed of
deceiving her; now, since her illness, prevarication seemed wiser as well as
safe.Shemustn'tbeworried...shewouldn'tunderstand..
..Hewasbeginningtoseethattheremightbeadvantagesinawifewhodidn't
understand....
Curiously enough, since he had settled down to this view his tenderness for
herhadincreased.Itwasasthoughatfirsthehadexpectedtoomuchofher,
andofhimselfinhisrelationtoher.Sinceherillnesshehadlearnttoknowher
better,hadfoundherlimitationseasiertoaccept;andnowthathisintellectual
hungerwasappeasedshesatisfiedtherestofhisnature.Thefactthathehad
sonearlylosthermadehermoreprecious,morevividlypresenttohim;hefelt
in her a new quality which not only enchanted his senses but fed his
imagination--if indeed there were any dividing line between the two. For
Laura Lou seemed to belong equally to his body and soul--it was only his
intelligence that she left unsatisfied. Into the world of his mind, with its
consuming curiosities, its fervid joys, she would never enter--would never
evendiscoverthatitexisted.Sometimes,whenanewideagrewinhimlikea
passion,heachedtoshareitwithher,butnotforlong.Hehadneverknown
thatkindofcompanionship,hadjustguessedat
itthroughthegropingwonderofhisfirsttalkswithHaloSpear,whenevery
wordshespokewasacluetonewdiscoveries.Heknewnowthatheandshe
might have walked those flaming ramparts together; but the path he had
chosen was on a lower level. And he was happy there, after all; intellectual
solitudewastoooldahabittoweighonhim....
MeanwhilethetalecalledInsteadwastakingshape.Itbeganbyadescription
oftheWillows,andwastodealwiththemysterioussubstitutionofonevalue
for another in a soul which had somehow found peace. The beginning went
quickly;hehadonlytoletthespiritoftheplaceworkinhim,thepictureshape
itself under his attentive pen. And this justified his daily escape to the
Willows--hehadtodothenovelasquicklyashecouldtopayofftheinterest
onhisloan....
Onedayheputhispendown,dismayedtofindthat--assooftenbefore--hedid
not know his subject well enough to go on. His mind wandered back to his
firstsightoftheWillows,whenhehadcometherewithLauraLouandUpton.
Hehadrecalled,then,wakinginthenightyearsbeforeatEuphoria,asalittle
boy, and hearing the bell of the Roman Catholic church toll the hour. That
solemnreverberation,likethenoteofJoshua'strumpet,hadmadethewallsof
thepresentfall,andthelittleboyhadreachedbackforthefirsttimeintothe
past.HisfirstsightoftheWillowshadrenewedthatfar-offimpression;hehad
feltthattheoldhousewasfullofmuffledreverberationswhichhishandmight
setgoingifhecouldfindtherope....Sincethentheyearshadpassed,andhe
hadlearnedmanythings.Hishandwasnearertherope--hewas"warm,"asthe
childrensaid.ButwhenhetriedtoevoketheElinorLorburnwhohadwaltzed
in the ballroom and wreathed her hair with flowers before her tilted toilet
mirrorthedumbwallsremaineddumb...hecouldnotwakethem....
The meagreness of his inherited experience, the way it had been torn off
violently from everything which had gone before, again struck him with a
pang of impoverishment. On the Fourth of July, at Advance and then at
Euphoria,theoratorsoftheday(andGrandpaScrimserforemostamongthem)
had been much given to dilating on the priceless qualities the pioneers had
brought with them into the wilderness. To Vance it sometimes seemed that
theyhadlefttherarestofallbehind....
Hefanciedheheard astepintheshadows andglancedupfromhis writing.
"Vance!"HaloTarrantexclaimed.Shewasstandingthere,inthedoorwayof
thedrawingroom,withalooksoamazedthatVance,jumpingtohisfeet,lost
hisown sense of surprise in the shock of hers. "WhyIthought you were in
Europe!"hesaid.
"Iwastohave been." She coloured slightly."Andthen,atthelast minute, I
didn'tgo."Shemovedastepnearer."Youhadn'theardIwasatEaglewood?"
"No.Ididn'tknow."
Shesmiledalittle."Well,Ididn'tknowyouwereattheWillows.Butjustnow,
inpassingthegate,Isawitwasopen--"(Oh,curseit,Vancethought-
-how could he have forgotten the padlock?) "and as I knew it wasn't Mrs.
Tracy'sdayIcameintoseewhowashere."
Her eyes were fixed on him with a looked which seemed to call for an
explanation,andhemumbled:"Mrs.Tracy'sbeensick...."
"Iknow;I'msorry.Andyou'rereplacingher?"
"There was no one else. At first I came only on Saturdays, just to see that
thingswereallright.Then--"heliftedhishead,andreturnedherlook,"then
thebookspulledmeback.Icouldn'thelpit.AndIgotinthewayofcoming
oftener."
"Isee.Veryoften?"
"Everyday,Iguess.Buttheydon'tknowitathome,"headdedhastily.
"Iknowthattoo,"shesaid,and,inanswertohisglanceofinterrogation:"I've
justcomefromthere.IheardMrs.Tracywasill,andIlookedintoseeifthere
wasanythingIcoulddo."Shewenton,agleamofironybeneathherlashes:
"LauraLouseemedtothinkyouwereinNewYork."
ThebloodrosetoVance'sfaceandburneditswayslowlytohistemples."I
...she'sbeensicktoo....Iknewshe'djustgetfrettingifshethoughtI
camehereoften...likethis...."
HaloTarrantstoodbeforehimpaleandgraveasayoungjudge;hefeltthathis
fatetrembledinthebalance."She'lldespisemeforit,too,"hethought,witha
pang which blotted out his other apprehensions. She made no answer, but
presently she said: "I hadn't seen Laura Lou for a year. How very beautiful
she'sgrown."
Vance,inhissurprise,couldproduceonlyaninarticulatemurmur.Therewas
no answer in his vocabulary to such amenities, especially when they were
unexpected;andhestoodabashedandawkward.Atlengthhefalteredout:"I
guessyouthinkIoughtn'ttobehereatall."
"Well, I won't betray you," she rejoined, still gravely. For a moment or two
neitherspoke;thenshemovedtowardthetable,andrestingherlonghandonit
(yes,hethought,itwascertainlylikethehandsinthepicture),shebentover
hismanuscript."Youdoyourworkhere?"
"Yes. Down home there's no place but the dining room. And they're always
cominginanddisturbingme."
Mrs.Tarranttossedoffherhat,andseatedherselfinthecarvenarmchair.The
severity of her gaze had softened. Vance leaned with folded arms in the
windowrecess.Fromwherehestoodherhead,withitscloselyfoldedhairand
thin cheeks, was just below that of the portrait, and though the eyes were
differenthefeltagainthesubtleresemblancebetweenthetwowomen."You
dolooklikeher!"heexclaimed.
Sheglancedup,narrowinghershort-sightedeyes."LikepoorCousin
Elinor?Isupposeyouandshearegettingtobegreatfriends,aren'tyou?"
"Yes."Helaidhishandonthepageatherelbow."Thisisabouther.""About
Elinor?"
Henoddedexcitedly."I'mwritingherlife--tryingto."
Hisvisitorlookedathimwithastonishment."Herlife--ElinorLorburn's?"
"Imean,thewayIimagineit.Howthingswereinthedayswhenthishouse
wasbuilt.Idon'tknowhowtoexplain...butIthinkIseeabigsubjectfora
novel--differentfromthethingstheotherfellowsaretryingfor.Whatinterests
me would be to get back into the minds of the people who lived in these
places--totryandseewhatwecameoutof.TillIdoI'llneverunderstandwhy
wearewhatweare...."Hepaused,breathlesswiththeattempttoformulate
hisproblem."ButIguessitwon'tdo,"hebeganagain."Idon'tknowenough
aboutthoseoldtimes.IthinktherearegoodthingsinwhatI'vedone,though.
..thebeginning'sgood,anyway.Seehere,"hebrokeout,"Iwishyou'dletme
readittoyou;willyou?"
Hesitations and scruples had fallen from him. He forgot that he had been
foundwherehehadnorighttobe,andtheprobableconsequences--forgotthe
possibility of Halo Tarrant's disapproval, was hardly aware of her presence
even, save as a listener to what he thirsted to have heard. She nodded and
leanedbackinherchair;andgatheringupthesheetshebegan.
His elocution was probably not much better than when he had recited his
poemstoheronThundertop.Buthedidnotthinkofthattillhehadstarted;
andafterthefirstparagraphhewassweptonbythenewemotionofwatching
his vision take shape in another mind. Such a thing had never happened to
him, and before he had read a page he was vibrating with the sense of her
exquisite participation. What his imagination had engendered was unfolding
andripeningin hers; whatever her final judgment was, it would be as if his
ownmindhadjudgedhim.
As his self-possession returned, the enjoyment of her actual presence was
added to the intellectual excitement. Everything about her seemed to be
listening and understanding, from the attentive droop of her lids to the
repressedeagernessofherlipsandthehandsfoldedquietlyonherknee.When
hehadendedheturnedawayabruptly,asthoughshemightseeeventheheart
thumpinginhisthroat.Hethrewthemanuscriptdown,andhisself-confidence
crumbled.
Mrs.Tarrantdidnotspeak.Shemerelyunclaspedherhands,andthenlaidone
overtheotheragain,withoutotherwisemoving.ToVancethesilenceseemed
abysmal.Heturnedbackandalmostshoutedather:"Well,it'snoearthlygood,
isit?"
Shelookedup."It'sgoingtobebyfarthebestthingyou'vedone."Hervoice
soundedrichwithrestrainedemotion."Ican'ttellyouhowstrangethefeeling
is--allthosedullfamiliarthingswiththeirmeaninggivenbacktothem...."
"Oh,isthatwhatI'vedone?Yousee--youdosee?"
"Ofcourse--Iseewithyoureyes,andwithminetoo.That'sthestrangeness-
-andthebeauty.Oh,Vance,howdidyoudoit?I'msoglad!"Shestoodupand
drewnearer.Itwasasifachievementwereshiningdownonhim."Youmust
goon--youmustgiveupeverythingtofinishthis."Henodded,speechless,and
shestoodlookingabouttheshadowyroom."Andofcourseyoumustdoyour
workhere.You'vemade thisplaceyours,youknow.And youmustbequiet
andundisturbed.I'll arrangeitforyou."Shesatdown again,leaningtoward
himacrossthetable."Butthisisonlyabeginning;tellmehowyoumeantogo
on."
XXIX
HaloTarrant'seleventh-hourdecisionnottosailwithherhusbandwasduetoa
trifling domestic quarrel; so most people would no doubt have called it--
thoughshesometimeswonderedhowitwaspossible,inanygivencase,tosay
in advance what would turn out trifling and what ominous in the world of
sentiment.
Shehad,orimaginedshehad,beenlookingforwardeagerlytothetrip;tothe
interestingpeopletheywouldsee,theexcitementofplayingevenasmallpart
in the literary world of London and Paris, and all the inducements which
change offers to the young and the unsatisfied. Then, suddenly, a link had
snappedinthechainholdinghertoTarrant,andtheystoodmilesapart,hardly
visibletoeachother.
Queer that life should be at the mercy of such accidents! But in this case
circumstanceshadbeentendingforsometimetounsettleherhusband'smoral
atmosphere,whichwasnotatbestastableone.TheNewHourwasnottaking
hold as they had hoped. Subscriptions were not increasing. That, they were
told, was natural: the first year of a new periodical is always critical. More
disquietingwasthefactthatbookshopsandnewsstandswerenotsendingin
heavier orders. There had even been a falling off in the sale of the last
numbers, and the editorial programme for the rest of the year was hardly
brilliantenoughtorevivethedemand.Thesituationwasnotunusual;butthat
was precisely what made it mortifying to Tarrant. Halo had already learned
that in her husband's scheme of life half successes were almost worse than
failures.Hehadtakenholdofthemoribundjournalandputnewlifeintoit;
andifitweretolanguishagaininhishands--ifsomebodyelse'sfailurewereto
becomehis--thesituationwouldbemuchmorehumiliating(andmoredifficult
forhisvanitytoaccountfor)thanifhehadstartedanewenterpriseandnot
madeitasuccess.
Frenside, at this juncture, had the happy thought of suggesting that Tarrant
shouldgoovertoLondonandParisandlookabouthim:personalcontactwith
editors and authors abroad might lead, he thought, to something interesting.
Tarrant, always exhilarated by any new plan, at once became buoyant and
masterful.Hedeclaredhehadalwaysthoughtheoughttogo;hewasgladthat,
foronce,hiswifeandFrensidehadcomeroundtohisview.Hewasprepared,
Haloknew,tofaceapecuniarylossonthereviewforthefirstyearortwo,but
notalossofprestige.Beinghisreview,itmustbebrilliantorvanish:aslow
declinewouldbeunbearable.Buthewas
confidentthatgreatthingswouldresultfromthisjourney,andthathewould
comehomewithaglitteringlistofcontributors.
Wheneverhisfaithinhimselfreturned,hiswife'srevivedwithit,andthetwo
hurried joyfully through their preparations. But on the evening before they
were to sail Tarrant came home in a different humour. He and Halo were
alone,andwhentheyreturnedtothelibraryafterdinnerhebrokeoutatonce:
"Well,we'redishedthistime;Idon'tseethatthere'smuchuseinsailing."
Halorousedherselfoutofherhappypreoccupation.Hurry,confusion,sudden
preparations of any sort, always amused and stimulated her; but they made
Lewisnervous--andsodidthemerereactionfromoptimism.Shehadlearned
toallowforthat,andonlyechoedabsently:"Nousesailing?"whileherreal
selfremainedabsorbedinluggagelabels,passportsanddeckchairs.Atlength
herhusband'ssilencetoldherthatsomethingmorewasexpectedofher,and
stillabsentlysheadded:"Why?"
As if her delay had reached to the extreme limit of his patience, his answer
sprangback:"ThePulsiferPrize.ThatfoolWestonhasgoneandlostit."
Halo shook off her travel dream with a start. What on earth, she wondered,
couldhavesetLewisfrettingaboutthePulsiferPrize?Butwhatwastheuseof
wondering?Shesupposedthat,aftertwoorthreeyearsofmarriage,therewere
timeswhenmosthusbandsseemedtotheirwiveslikeharmlesslunatics(when
itwasn'ttheotherwayround,orperhapsreciprocal),andsheanswered,ina
toneofgood-humouredreminder:"Lostit?Howcouldhe,whenit'snotgiven
untilnextNovember?"
Tarrant, with a shrug, threw himself back wearily in his chair, and she
remembered,toolate,thattherewasnothinghesoloathedasbeinghumoured.
"Mydear,"hesaid,"what'sthesenseofthatsortoftalk?You'renotreallyas
simpleasallthat:youknowperfectlywellthattheprizeisgiventheminute
JetPulsifertakesashinetooneofthecandidates.Andshehadtakenashineto
thatsillyass."
Halo's indifference was giving way to a sense of counter-irritation. Where
wouldhegotodiguphisnextgrievance,shewondered?Andjustassheought
to be writing out the labels--! "Oh, if that's all--" The whole subject of the
Pulsifer Prize, with its half-confessed background of wire-pulling and
influencing, was particularly distasteful to her, and she was really thankful
therewasnotimetodealwithit.
"All?"Tarrantechoed."It'severything.ShefellforWestontheminuteshelaid
eyesonhim--thateveningatthepartyhere.Itwasratherwhatwe'dplanned
thethingfor--youremember?Andshe'sbeenawfullynicetohimeversince..
. seeing him very often, and encouraging him a good deal, I imagine. You
knowwhatsheis."
Halomurmuredreluctantly:"Well--?"
"Well,whatdoestheinfernalfooldo?Goestheretheotherdayandholdsher
upforaloan."
"Aloan?"
"Aloan.Andhowmuch,doyousuppose?Theexactamountoftheprize.Two
thousanddollars--nota copperless!" Tarrantstartedupangrilyandbeganto
pacethefloor."Shesentformetoday;Ineversawawomansoupset.Shesays
hetalkedasifheweremerelyaskingforanadvance--asifhisgettingtheprize
wasasurething,andshemightaswellhandthecashoveratonce,aslongas
hewasboundtogetit."
ThoughtsofluggagelabelsanddeckchairsvanishedfromHalo'smind.Into
theirplacetherestoleacoldinsidiousdreadofwhatwascoming,ofwhather
husband was going to say, and she was going to feel about it. "Nonsense,
Lewis,"sheexclaimed."Idon'tbelieveheeversaidanythinglikethat."
Tarrant laughed. "We all know you think he can't do wrong. But I suppose
you'lladmithedidaskforthemoney,ifshesaysso?"
Halopondered.ShehadforgottenherselfandTarrantintheshockof a new
distress."Poorfellow--Iwonderwhyhewanteditsobadly."
"Well, I own I'm less interested in that. What I care about is that he's fairly
dishedus,andthatwewerebankingontheprizetogiveusaboostattheend
oftheyear.Withanewreviewitwouldhavemadealotofdifference.Butthe
ideaofconsideringusisthelastthatwouldenterhishead."
"Isupposeitis,ifhewantedthemoneyasmuchasthat;andhemusthave,to
dreamofaskingJetPulsifer."
"Oh,Idon'tknow.Idaresayit'sratherinhisline.Thatkindofman,whenhe
seesawoman'sgoneonhim..."
"He's not that kind of man!" Halo exclaimed. She also stood up, trembling
withanunaccountabledismay."Whatreasondidhegive--didn'tshetellyou?"
"Oh,theusualone,Ibelieve.Hardup--wifeill,orsomething--theyalwaystell
the same story. To think the fool had only to sit tight and let her go on
admiringhim!"
Therewasalongsilence.Tarrantstoppedhisnervouspacingandreturnedto
hisarmchair,throwinghimselfintoitwithagroanofimpatience."Thatprize
wasours!"
"Ours?"
"Well--isn't he our discovery?" He laughed. "Yours, if you prefer. You're
welcometoit.Iholdnobriefforblackmailers."
She looked at him with astonishment. He had suddenly crowded Vance
Weston out of her mind and taken possession of its centre himself.
"Blackmailers?"sherepeated.She saidthe wordover slowly, onceor twice.
Then:"But,Lewis,ifhe'sthat,whatarewe?What'stheNewHour?"
Tarrant threw back his handsome head and returned her look with faintly
raised brows of interrogation, and a glance which declared resignedly: "Ah,
nowIgiveup!"
"Whatarewe,"hiswifewenton,"whoknewwhatJetwas,andputtheboyin
herway,andworkedupherimaginationabouthim,allto..."Shebrokeoff,
vexedwithherownexaggeratedemotion,yetunabletocontrolit.
Tarrant's tone, in contrast, grew profoundly quiet. "All to--what?" "Steal the
prizeforourpaper."
He looked at her, still with arched ironic brows. "That's what you call it?
Stealing?"
"Don't you? We began to throw that boy in Jet's way months ago--began in
this very house, and at your suggestion." (Oh, of course, he interjected, he
knew she'd end by putting all the blame on him.) "No, I don't," Halo
continued."Ikeepmyshare;andit'sabigone.ButIseenowthatweought
bothtobeashamed--farmoreashamedthanVance.AndIam--I'mrevolted.If
that'sthewayliteratureisproduced,ithadbetterceasealtogether.Ifit
hastobeshoveddownpeople'sthroatslikeBeautyProductsandpatentcollar
buttonsitshowsourpeopledon'treallywantit;that'sall!"
Tarrant leaned back, and stretched his hand out for a cigar. "Did you ever
reallythinktheydid?"
Hercolourrose."IsupposeIdidn'tthinkatall--Ijustrushedaheadwiththe
crowd.Butnow..."
"Well--now?"
"Nowitseemstomethere'sonlyonethingwecandotosaveoursouls--we
mustlendtheboythatmoney."
Tarrantpausedattentivelyinthelightingofhiscigar."We--?"
"You,"shecorrected herself,crimsoning. Something,perhaps involuntary,in
theinflexionofhisvoiceseemedtoimplythat,wheretherewasaquestionof
bestowingmoney, theplural pronouncould hardlybe currentbetweenthem.
Buthisnextretortbrushedasidetheimplication.
"We--I?Lendhimthemoney?Whatonearthareyoutalkingabout?Hegets
us into a damned mess, and we reward him for it?" She was silent. "Is that
yourideaofit?"heinsisted.
Shemurmuredwithashrug:"Isupposeit'syourideaofmyidea.""Ah,and
whatisyours,ifI'vemisinterpretedit?"
"Thatthefaultisallours,andthatweoughttoexpiate."
"Expiate!"Hesmiled."Youtalklikeanold-fashionedRussiannovel...."He
pausedamoment,andthenadded:"Ihadnoideayouweresuchanidealist...
. Well, it's getting late," he continued, standing up with a shake of his long
body."I'vegottothrowsomelastthingsintomytrunk,andwe'llpostponethis
discussiontillwe'reonboard."
Halofeltasuddenblurbeforehereyes."Lewis!"sheexclaimed.
He turned back, irritated, impatient to make an end, and as the two stood
looking at each other Halo saw, in a revealing flash, how immeasurably far
aparttheywere--hadalwaysbeen,perhaps.Itwasasifshehadbeenwalking
in her sleep, and had now abruptly opened her eyes on the edge of a sheer
drop.Yetwhatwasthereinthispaltrywrangletothrowsuchaglareintothe
depths?
Tarrantstoodwaiting.Helookeddrawn,tired,exasperated.Itwasnotimefor
reasonableexplanations;hehatedtactlessness,andshewasbeingtactless.Yet
speakshemust--speak(shesaidtoherself)beforetheyweresofarapartthat
hewasoutofhearing....
"Well?"herepeated.
"Lewis...you'renotgoingtounderstand....""Understandwhat?"
"WhyIsaywhatI'mgoingtosay--"
"Lord!Howportentous!Whatareyougoingtosay?"
"ThatourtalkhasmademefeelIwanttobebymyselfforawhile--awayfrom
you,Imean...."
"Oh, is that all? All right. I'm off to bed this minute," he said, strangling a
yawn.
"Idon'tmeanthat.Imean...I'drathernotsailwithyoutomorrow."
"Notsail?"Heswungroundandmusteredherincredulously."Whatin
God'snameareyoudrivingatnow?"
"JustwhatIsay.I'drathernotgo...."
Heleanedinthedoorway,waiting.Shesaidnothingmore,andhebrokeinto
thethinlaughwhichoftenprecededhisoutburstsofanger."MayIaskwhatall
thefussisaboutanyhow?"
Shegavebackhislookalmosttimidly.Shehadnotknownshemeanttosay
just those words till they were uttered; but now she knew it was her inmost
selfwhichhadsaidthem,andshecouldnottakebackwhatwasspoken.Yet
howwasshetoexplain?"BecauseI...becauseIfeelIwanttobealonefora
while...."
"That's why you're not going?" "I don't feel as if--I could. . . ." "You're not
serious,areyou?""Yes.I'mserious."
Therewasanothersilence.Shesawthathewasbaffledandmortified,andyet
tooproudtoarguewithherorentreather.
"Oh,allright--ifyousayso,"hemuttered.Then,afterapause:"Allthesame,
though,I'mcurioustoknowwhy."
She hesitated, still caught in the hopeless difficulty of finding words. "It's
because...Isuddenlyseethatwefeeltoodifferentlyaboutthings,andIwant
tohavetimetothink...togoawayandthinkbymyself...."
Tarrant'slipsnarrowed,andhiscoldeyesseemedtodrawclosertogether."If
you mean that we feel differently about lending Vance Weston money, we
certainly do. I rather wonder, though, that you should pick that out as a
grievance. I should have thought you might have remembered that as a rule
I'mnotbackwardaboutlendingmoney."
There was a long pause. Halo leaned against the chair from which she had
risen,andtheeyesrestingonherhusbandfilledwithtears.Herresentmenthad
died at the very moment when he had found the taunt most calculated to
quickenit.Shewouldhavegiventheworldifhehadnotsaidthoseparticular
words,becausetheylaidbaretoherthecornerofhismindwhereoldgrudges
and rancours were stored, the corner into which she had always refused to
look.Butnowthatthewordswerespokenshefeltonlypityforhim--andfor
herself.Itseemedtoherthatheandshemeritedequallysuchhumiliationas
themomentinvolved."Oh,Lewis,"shebegan,"pleasedon't.
..."
"Idon'twantto--allIwantistomakemyselfclear."
"Youhave,"shemurmured.Shestraightenedherselfandtookastepback.He
stillleanedinthedoorandlookedather.
"Allright,"hesaid,againwithhisthinlaugh."Thenwemaycallthematter
settled?"
She made no answer, and after waiting a moment he went out of the room.
When the door had closed she sat down and leaned back in her chair with
closedeyes.
TojustifyherappearanceatEaglewoodonthedaywhenshewassupposedto
besailingwithherhusband,Halotoldherparentsthatatthelastminuteshe
haddecidedhewoulddohisjobbetterwithouther.Draggingawifeabouton
suchahurriedexpedition--whatanuisance!Ofcoursehecouldn'ttellherso;
buthisbeautifullysimulateddistress,whenshehadannouncedherdecision,
hadshownherhowrelievedhefelt."Youknowhowheis:neversopoliteas
when he wishes you were dead and buried," she reminded her father and
mother;andsmilinglywatchedtheirincredulitymeltintoreassurance.Itwas
easynowtoreassuretheSpears!Sincetheirownwantswereprovidedforthey
hadgrownlessexactingforothers.Withacomfortingwordortwoyoucould
putMr.Spear'smindtorestaboutthetreatmentoflive bait,orMrs.Spear's
about the future of democracy. And so with the case of their daughter. Mrs.
Spear,whostillneededtobetoldatintervalsthatallwasrightwiththeworld,
instantly seized on the idea that Halo had given up sailing because she had
"hopes"again--atlast!--hadperhapsbeenadvisedbythedoctor...thoughthe
poorchild,afterherpreviousdisappointments,wasnaturallyreticent.AndMr.
Spearsmokedhisgoodcigars,andsaid,well,nodoubthisdaughterknewher
businessbetterthantheydid,andheratheradmiredthewaythemodernyoung
people had of respecting each other's independence. Halo knew that her
parentswereenchantedtohavehertothemselves;Tarrantratherintimidated
them,anditwaseasiertopraisehimbehindhisbackthantohumourhimto
hisface.Theeasyhappy-go-luckyquarrelsomeatmosphereofEaglewoodwas
alwayschilledbyhispresence;andthereweresomanyoftheirfriendswhom
heregarded asbores or cranks,and whomtheycouldn't invitewhen hewas
there....
Halo did not care what her parents thought of her sham reasons, as long as
theyfeigned to accept them;shewas too busy examiningthereal ones. She
knewthatshehadatlastemergedintothebaldlightofdayfromthemistof
illusionshehadtriedtocreateabouthermarriage.ThattalkwithLewishad
been a turning point: the inevitable stocktaking. Never again would she see
himsaveashewas;butshewouldalso,asinevitably,seeherselfaschainedto
himforlife.
Thefactthathehadremindedherofherobligationwouldmakeitperpetually
present to her. The new carpets at Eaglewood, the Spear flat in New York,
Mrs.Spear's blackvelvet,Mr. Spear'scigars,the fundsforLorry's theatrical
enterprise--these were the links of her chain. They held her as tight as if
divorcehadneverexisted.ForsheknewnowthatallLewis'sgenerosity(yes,
yes,hewasgenerous!)hadproceedednotfromtheheartbutfromthehead.He
wantedher;shesuitedhim;hehadboughther.Itwasnomoreromanticthan
that.Andbeingagentleman,hepunctiliously
paidtheannualtax onhisacquisition,andwould continueto aslongas she
continuedtosuithim.Anditwasherbusinesstogoonsuitinghim,since,the
daysheceasedto,theSpearhouseholdwouldfalltopieces....
Theideafrightenedher,andassoonashewassafelyatseashebegantothink
how to conciliate him. Everything seemed easy when he was not there. His
coldunreasonablenessalwayssilencedheratthemoment,andthenstungher
to resistance; but she could make her submission in writing because, escape
beingimpossible,commonsensewarnedhertomakethebestofherfate.And
somethinghigherthancommonsensewhisperedthat,afterall,shewasonly
payingherdues....
Shesenthim,bythenextsteamer,asimplefriendlyletter,tellinghimthatshe
knew she'd been stupid, but she'd been feeling dreadfully nervous and
overtired,andhemustforgiveher,andnotthinkoftheirdisagreement.Itwas
really providential, she added, that she hadn't gone with him, because the
doctorfoundshewasratherrundownandanaemic,andbadlyinneedofarest,
andshewouldjusthavebeenadragonhim,andunabletokeepupthepace.
Buttoshowshewasforgivenhemustsendherlongcableletterswithallhis
newsandthereview's....
Shehad written thathernotgoing with him hadbeenprovidential; but how
true it was she did not dream till she heard those first chapters of Vance
Weston's.
UnderhistouchthefamiliarsettingoftheWillowsbecamesteepedinpoetry.
ItwashisembodimentofthePast:thatstrangeandoverwhelmingelementhad
enteredintohisimaginationintheguiseofthesefunnyturretsandbalconies,
turgid upholsteries and dangling crystals. Suddenly lifted out of a boundless
contiguityofEuphorias,hismindstruckrootdeepdowninaccumulatedlayers
of experience, in centuries of struggle, passion, and aspiration--so that this
absurd house, the joke of Halo's childhood, was to him the very emblem of
man'slongeffort,wasChartres,theParthenon,thePyramids.
It was extraordinary, how this new vision of it reanimated the dusty scene.
CountlessdetailsthatHalohadtakenforgranted,or dismissedasnegligible,
werenowripewithmeaning.Themerediscoverythattherewerepeoplewho
hadbeenbornanddiedinthesamehousewasromanceandpoetrytoVance.It
gavetoalltheseanonymousparticlesareliefandasubstanceshehadnever
guessed in them. And the fact that she could help him in his magical
evocation, provide him with countless necessary details about these people
whoweresonearyetsoremote,sotrivialyetso
significant,couldtellhimhowtheyspokeandfeltandlivedanddied,made
herfeelofuseagainintheworld.
EverydayatthesamehourshecamebacktotheWillowstomeethim,sothat
there should be no break in his inspiration. Ah, now, indeed, the New Hour
wastohaveitsmasterpiece!
XXX
Mrs.Tracyhadrecovered.Thekeysofthe Willowsweresafelybackinher
drawer,andsheandLauraLoubeganagaingoingtothehouseonstateddays.
OnthosedaysVanceusuallystayedathometowriteinthestuffylittledining
room;or,ifthestuffinesswastoooppressive,wanderedoffupthemountain,
pastthegatesofEaglewood,pastthehighest-lyingfarms,totheopenridges
belowThundertop.
Mrs. Tracy's day was Saturday. On her first return to the Willows she
apparently discovered nothing unusual or out of order; if she had, Vance
wouldcertainlyhaveheardofit.Shehadneverthrownofftheworryofhaving
to entrust the keys to him, and had manifestly expected to find books
dislodgedandcigaretteendslyingabout,ifnothingworse.
"ItoldMotheryou'dbeeversocareful,"LauraLoureportedafterwardwitha
littlesmileoftriumph;andVance,pushinghismanuscriptaside,smiledback
absently:"AfterthescareIhadinthathouse--!"
Hewasnotafraidofscaresnow.Heknewthatonthedayswhenhewentto
theWillowshewasstillsupposedbyhiswifeandmother-in-lawtobe"atthe
office." And so, technically, he was. After all, he had simply transferred his
papersfromaprecariousdeskcornerattheNewHourtothesanctuaryofMiss
Lorburn's library. He no longer needed Mrs. Tracy's keys (those damned
keys!)forHaloTarranthadherown,andwasalwaystherebeforehim.Hedid
notrememberhowthattacitarrangementhadbeenestablished,noratwhose
suggestion he and she, when the afternoon's work was over, invariably
restoredeverybooktoitsplace,lockedupthemanuscriptinacupboardbelow
the bookshelves, and buried their cigarette ends in the border outside of the
window.OnthedaywhenMrs.Tarranthadfirst
surprisedhiminthelibraryVancehadconfessedthathiswifeandmother-in-
lawdidnotknowofhiscomingtotheWillowstowork,andhadtoldherhis
reasonsforkeepinghisvisitssecret.Shehadunderstoodinaflash--whendid
she not?--and all their subsequent precautions had grown out of that brief
avowal,withoutanycommentorquestionthathecouldremember.
Thatwasoneofherrarequalities,tohimperhapstherarest:thewayshetook
things for granted, didn't forever come harping back on them. That, and her
not asking questions--personal questions. In the world of Euphoria and the
Tracysthewomendidnothingbutaskquestions.Theyneverstoppedasking
questions.The only things that seemed to interestthemunfailinglywere the
thingsamanmightconceivablywanttokeeptohimself.Theyhadnoseslike
shootingdogsforthoseparticularthings,whatevertheywere;agoodpartof
the time a man spent away from his women had to be devoted to inventing
prevaricationsastohowhespentit.Ifafellowhadonlystrolleddowntothe
station to see the Chicago express come in, he would invent something else
fromthemereforceofhabit....WithMrs.Tarrantitwasdifferent.Shehada
wayofdashingstraightattheessentials.Andanyhow,shedidn'tseemtocare
how Vance spent his time when he was away from her, an indifference as
surprisingtohiminawomanfriendasinwifeorsweetheart.Noonehadever
cross-questioned him more searchingly than his own sisters; yet here was a
woman with whom he was on terms of fraternal intimacy--who shared with
him almost daily the long hushed midsummer afternoons, yet seemed
interested only in the hours they lived together in fervid intellectual
communion.Thetruthwasthat,bothasHaloSpearandasHaloTarrant,she
had always appeared to Vance less as a simple human creature than as the
mysterious custodian of the unknown, a being who held the keys of
knowledgeandcouldrenderitaccessibleandlovelytohim.Thefirstdayshe
had found him at work on his new tale she had plunged into his enchanted
world with him, and there they met again each afternoon. She had entered
instantly into his idea of evoking the old house and its dwellers, and as he
advancedinhistaskshewasthereateachturn,herhandsfulloftreasure,like
a disciple bringing refreshment to an artist too engrossed to leave his work.
Only it was he who was the disciple, not she: he who, at each stage, had
something new to learn of her. He had brought his fresh untouched
imagination to the study of the old house and the lives led in it--a subject
whichtoherhadseemedtooneartobeinteresting,buttohimwasremoteand
poetic as the Crusades or the wars of Alexander. And he saw that, as she
suppliedhimwiththequainthomelydetailsofthatpast,shewasfascinatedby
thewayinwhichtheywereabsorbedintohisvision,wovenintohisdesign."I
don't see how you can feel as those people must have felt. I suppose it's
becausethey're
already history to you. . . . Don't forget that Alida" (Elinor Lorburn had
becomeAlidaThorpe)"wouldalwayshavehadherhandkerchiefinherhand:
withawidelaceedge,liketheoneIbroughtdownfromEaglewoodtoshow
you yesterday. . . . It's important, because it made them use their hands
differently. . . . And their minds too, perhaps . . . like the old gentlemen I
rememberwhenIwasachild,whoalwayscarriedtheirhatandglovesintothe
drawingroomwhentheycalled.Andherweddingdress"(fortheirAlidawas
tohavehadthehopeofmarriage)"would,Ithink,havebeenlikemygreat-
great-grandmother's:Indiamull,embroideredatMadras,andbroughtbackon
one of her grandfather's merchantmen. For of course all their finery would
have been stored away for generations in those old chests we found in the
attic.Elinorreallywasanepitomeofsixorsevengenerations--thelastchapter
ofalongslowlymovingstory."
"Ah--slowly moving! That's it! If I could get the pace the way you seem to
giveittomewhenyoutellmeallthosethings..."
Heleanedhiselbowsonthescatteredpagesandstaredatheracrossthetable.
The long folds of the green velvet table cover drooped to the floor between
them, and from her shadowy place above the mantel Miss Lorburn looked
downmeditativelyontheyoungpairwhoweretryingtocallherbacktolife.
HaloTarrant,facinghim,herdarkhairpartedonhertemples,herthinfacefull
ofshadowyhollows,seemedintheshutteredsummerlight,almostasghostly
asMissLorburn."Iwonder--"Vancebrokeout,layingdownhispentolookat
her."Haveyouhadtogiveupthingstoo...
?"
"Giveupthings...?"
"Imean:avisionoflife."
"Oh,that--!"Shegaveafaintlaugh."Whodoesn't?Luckilyonecanrecapture
itsometimes--inanotherform."Shepointedtothemanuscript."That'sexactly
yourtheme,isn'tit?"
Henodded.Theallusionsenthimbacktohiswork.Hedidnotknowwhyhe
hadstrayedfromittoaskherthatquestion--thefirstpersonalquestionhehad
everputtoher.Butthereweremomentswhentheshapeofherface,thecurves
ofherhairandbrows,remindedhimsostartlinglyofthethwartedladyabove
the mantel that the comparison sent a pang through him. And then Mrs.
Tarrant would burst into banter and laughter, would flame with youthful
contradictionsandenthusiasms,andhewouldwonderhowhecouldhaveseen
inheranyresemblancetothesadspinsterwhohadleanedonwinterevenings
onthegreenvelvettable,readingColeridge.
"Yes--butitwasColeridge;don'tforgetthat!Itwasn'tTheSaints'RestorThe
BookofMartyrs."ThathadbeenoneofHalo'sfirstadmonitions.Vancewas
nottomake a predestined old maid or a pious recluse out of hisAlida.She
mustbeacreatureaptforlove,butsomehowcaughtinthecrueltaboosand
inhibitions of her day, and breaking through them too late to find
compensationexceptunderanotherguise:theguiseofpoetry,dreams,visions.
...Thatwashowtheysawher.
HisworkhadalwaysbeenengrossingtoVance--somethinghewasdrivento
by an irresistible force. But hitherto it had been laborious, thankless, full of
pitfallsandperplexities,asmuchawearinessasajoy,andalwaysundertaken
tentatively, hazardously, with a dread lest the rich fields through which it
beckoned should turn into a waterless desert. Now he felt at ease with his
subject,assurancegrewinhimasheadvanced.Forbesidehimwasthatother
consciousness which seemed an extension of his own, in which every
inspiration, as it came, instantly rooted and flowered, and every mistake
withered and dropped out of sight. He was tasting for the first time the
creator's supreme joy, the reflection of his creation in a responsive
intelligence;andyoungashewas,andusedtosnatchingwhatcametohimas
recklessly as a boy breaking the buds from a fruit tree, he was yet deeply
awareofthepeculiarqualityofthisexperience.
"Thataboutthehandkerchiefalwaysinherhand--that'sthekindofthingthat
givesmethepace...."Heleanedback,rumplinghishairandlookingstraight
aheadofhimintohisdream.Hehadbeenreadingaloudtheafternoon'swork,
and Halo, as her way was, sat silent, letting the impression of the reading
penetrateher.
"You see, from the first day I set foot in this house I got that sense of
continuity that we folks have missed out of our lives--out where I live,
anyway--anditgavemetheideaofadifferentrhythm,adifferenttimebeat:a
movementwithoutjerksandbreaks,flowingdownfromeversofaroffinthe
hills,bearingshipstothesea....Idon'tsayonemethod'sbetterthananother;
onlyIseethisismine...forthesubjectsIwanttodo,anyhow....Andso
evenahandkerchiefinawoman'shandcounts...."
Shenodded:"Ofcourse."
"AndthosearethethingsInevercouldhavefoundoutifyouhadn'ttoldme."
"Oh,yes,youwould....Youweredestinedto...."
"IguessIwasdestinedtoyou,"herejoined,halflaughing.
Sheechoedthelaugh;thenshepushedbackherchairwithasigh."It'slate-
-I must be going. But you're all right now; you've got all the material you
need,andyouknowwhattodowithit.I'mgladtogoawayfeelingcertainof
that."
Stilldeepinhisdream,heprotested:"Butyou'renotgoingaway?It'snotlate,
really;andtherearetwoorthreethingsmore..."
Shestood upwith agestureofnegation."Oh, you'llhave towritemeabout
those,ordropinsomedaywhenyoucometoNewYork--"
Hesatcrouchedoverthetable,hischinsunkinhislockedhands,andstared
upuncomprehendingly."Write to you? What do you mean? Can't you come
backtomorrow?"
"No,northenextday.Ourholiday'sover,Vance--didn'tyouknow?""Over--
why?"
"Becausemyhusband'sarriving;I'mgoingbacktoNewYorktojoinhim."
The words fell on his excited brain like little blows from some deadly
instrument.Atfirsthehardlyfeltthem--then hisheadreeledwiththeshock,
andforamomenthefoundnowordtosay.
"Butyou'reallrightnow;Imeanthebook'sallright--youcanseeyourway
ahead;can'tyou,Vance?"
Hestilllookedupatherincredulously."Ican'tseeanythingbutyou."
"Oh--"shemurmured,andsatdownoncemore,facinghimacrossthefamiliar
table."Well,nowonder:we'velookedateachotherlikethisnearlyeveryday
fortwomonthsnow...."
Vancewasnotlistening.Hehadreachedthesamedegreeofabsorptionwhich,
thedayhehadmetLauraLouintherubberneckcar,hadmadeitimpossibleto
fixhisattentiononwhatshewassaying.HesatlookingatHaloTarrantwitha
concentrationasremoteaspossiblefromthatAprilecstasy,yetasintense."I
feelasifI'dneverlookedatyoubefore,"heblunderedout.
"I don't believe you ever did!" she said. Her lips began a smile; then they
becamegrave,andherslowcolourmounted.Shesatmotionless,givinghim
back his gaze so steadfastly that hers seemed to enter into his eyes and slip
downtheirlongwindingstohisverysoul.Shedroppedherlidsaftera
while,andmadeamotiontoriseagain."Butyou'llknowmenow,won'tyou,
thenexttimewemeet?"
He made no answer. Her banter hung in a meaningless dazzle somewhere
outsideofhim;allhisrealselfwaswithin,centredintheeffortofholdingher
imagefast,oftracingit,linebyline,curvebycurve,withthepassionatehands
ofmemory.Shewhohadseemedtohimbutadisembodiedintelligencewas
nowstealingintoeveryveinandfibrelikewine,likewind,likealltheseed-
bearingcurrentsofspring.Helookedatherhands,whichlayfoldedbeforeher
onthetable,andwonderedwhattheirhiddenpalmswerelike,andthedimpled
recessofherinnerarmattheelbow."No,I'veneverknownyou,"herepeated
stupidly.
"Oh,butwe'vebeen...butwe'vebeen...."Shebrokeoff,andbeganagain,
inamoredecidedtone:"Yourbookhasreachedapointnowwhenitwillbe
all the better for you to go on with it alone. A writer oughtn't to get too
dependentonanybody'sadvice.IfI'vebeenabletohelpyou..."
"Oh, curse the book," he broke in, burying his face in his hands. The tears
chokedinhisthroatandburnthisclose-pressedeyeballs.Hehadn'tknown-
-whyhadn'theknown?--thatitwouldbelikethis....Theroomgrewstill.He
heardaflybangagainstthewindowanddroptothesillfromtheshockofits
ownimpact.Outsidewastheconfusedmurmurofthesummer
afternoon.PresentlyMrs.Tarrantmoved.Shewalkedaroundthetable,hefelt
thestirofhernearness,herhandrestedonhisshoulder."Vance--don't.
Remember,you'vegotyourjob;andyoubelongtoit."
He did not move lest he should lose the shock of her light touch running
throughhimlikehisblood.Buttohimselfhegroaned:"It'salwaysthesame
waywithyou,youfool.Youseeonlyonethingatatime,andgetintoafrenzy
aboutthat,andninetimesoutoftenit'snottherealthingyou'rechasingafter
butonlysomethingyourbrainhasfakedup."
Mrs.Tarrantwentoninthesameeventone."Vance,areyoulisteningtome?
Youmustlisten.Ofcourseyoumustgoonwithyourworkhere.Youmustn't
bedisturbed--andyoumusthavethisatmosphereaboutyou;I'llseetothat--I'll
arrange it." Still he did not answer; did not drop his hands or turn his head
whenheheardaslightclickonthetableathiselbow."See,Vance,I'mleaving
youthekeys.Don'tforgetthem.YoucanreturnthemtomeinNewYorkwhen
youbringmethefinishedbook."
He did not move. She too was silent for a moment; then her hand was
withdrawn."Come--wemustsaygood-bye,Vance."
He dropped his hands and leaned back, looking up at her. "I never thought
aboutitsending,"hemuttered.
"But it isn't ending; why should it? You must stick to your job and carry it
through; and then, when it's done, you'll be coming back regularly to the
office--andIshallseeyouoften,Ihope...."
"Notlikethis."
"Thishadbeengood,hasn'tit?Butwhenyourbook'sdone,thatwillbelots
better;thatwillbethebestthatcouldhappen...."
"Idon'tcareacurseaboutthebook."
Shestoodlookingdownathim,andafaintsmilestoletoherlips."Youought
to,ifyousaywe'vedoneittogether."
Againthetoneofbanter!Shewasdeterminedtoforcethattoneonhimthen.
Shewasteasinghim,ridiculinghim,condescendingtohimfromtheheightof
allhersuperiorities:age,experience,education,worldlysituation;andhe,this
rawboy,hadsatthere,forgettingthesedifferences,andimaginingthatbecause
hehadsuddenlydiscoveredwhatshewastohim,hecouldhopetobeasmuch
toher!Heachedwiththeblowtohisvanity,andafierceprideforcedhimto
feelnootherache.Ifshethoughtofhimasablunderingboy,tobepitiedand
jokedwith,tohellwithdreamsandambitions,andallhehadbelievedhimself
tobe!
"I guess I don't know how to talk," he grumbled out. "Better tie up to my
writing--thatyouridea?"
Shesatdownbesidehimagain,andwhilehecoveredhiseyesfromtheglare
ofhisownblunderheheardher,onanotherplaneofconsciousness,withother
ears, as it were--heard her talking to him reasonably, wisely, urgently of his
work,oftheopportunitiesaheadofhim,ofwhathewasjustifiedinhoping,of
whathiseffortandambitionoughttobe:allinanaffectionate"olderfriend"
voice,avoicesocoolandmeasuredthateverysyllablefellwithalittlehisson
thered-hotsurfaceofhishumiliation.
"YouknowhowI'vealwaysbelievedinyou,Vance.Oh,butthat'snothing
...I'mnobody.Butmyhusbandbelievesinyoutoo...believedinyoufrom
thefirst, before I'd readanythingof yours; he's provedhisbelief,hasn't he?
AndFrenside--Frenside,who'sneverpleased,neversatisfied...
Andwhentheyseewhatyou'vedonenowthey'llfeeltheywerejustified--I
knowtheywill....Vance,youknowartistsalwayshavethesefitsof
discouragement. ..oftenjustwhenthey'vedonetheirbest;it'sthereaction
aftersuccessfuleffort.Andthisisyourbestsofar,oh,somuchyourbest!I'm
suresomethingstillbiggerandbetterwillfollow;butmeanwhile,dearboy,for
yoursoul'ssakeyoumustbelieveinthis,youmustbelieveinyourself...."
Forhissoul'ssakehecouldnothavelookeduporchangedhisattitude.Her
friendly compassion crushed him to earth, her incomprehension held him
there."Ifshe'donlygo,"hethought,"ifonlyitwasover...."
Thestillnesswasbrokenbythescrapingofherpushed-backchair.Hefelta
stirofairasshemoved,andheard,throughinterlockedhands,herfootfallsink
intothebottomlesssilenceoftheoldhouse.Adoorclosed.Shehadgone;it
wasover....
XXXI
Vance continued to sit there. He had imagined he had suffered on the day
whenhehadseenhisgrandfatherdownbytheriverwithFlossDelaney:poor
simpleton! That was a wound to his raw senses. He had escaped from it by
writingitoutandsellingittoaneditor.Butnowtherewasnotaveinofhis
body,notacellofhisbrain,notadreamoravisionofhissoul,thatwasnot
hurt,disabled....Thiswomanwhohadkindledinhimthelightbywhichhe
livedhadsattherecomplacentlytellinghimthatshebelievedinhiswork,that
her husband and old Frenside believed in it . . . and had thought she was
leavinghimcomforted!
Butdidshereallythinkso?Orwasallshehadsaidonlyaprotectivedisguise,
theconscientiousefforttorepressemotionscorrespondingtohisown?Hehad
an idea she would be very conscientious, full of scruples he wasn't sure he
whollyunderstood.Forifshehadn'tcaredasmuchashedid,whyshouldshe
havedevotedallthosehourstohelpinghim?Ifitwasjustforthegoodofthe
New Hour, she was indeed the ideal wife for an editor! But no: those
afternoonshadbeenasfullforherasforhim.Whatwasthatphraseshehad
pointedout,inthevolumeofKeats'sLettersshehadgivenhim--aboutloading
everyriftwithgold?Thatwaswhattheyhaddonetotheirhourstogether:both
ofthem.
Suddenly, as he sat brooding, he heard a door open: then, after a moment's
delay, a step coming through the empty rooms. The carpets muffled it, the
stealingtwilightseemedtoenvelopit;butitwashers,herssurely--whoelse
would have business there? She was returning, coming back to say all the
thingsthatweresurginginhisheart....Hesatstill,notdaringtolookup.
The step drew nearer, reached the threshold, clicked on the parquet of the
library.HestartedupandsawMrs.Tracy.Inthefaintlightherfacelookedso
drawn and wretched that he thought she had been taken ill again, and went
towardherhurriedly.
"Why,what'sthematter?"
"Matter? It is a woman you come to meet here then!" She had reached the
table,andwithaquickpouncepickedupaglovewhichlaythere."That'swhat
youcallyourliterarywork,isit?"shetriumphedvenomously.
Vancestoodsilent. His mind was stillsochargedwith ardent and agonizing
thoughtsthathecouldnotgraspwhatshewassaying.Whatwasshetalking
about,whatwasshetryingtoinsinuate,whathadshecomefor?Oncemorehe
caughtinherfacethegleamofanimosityhehadbeenconsciousof,justbelow
thesurface,eversincehehadgonewithUptontotheballgame.
"Well,haven'tyougotanythingtosay?No,Idon'tsupposeyouhave!"Mrs.
Tracytauntedhim.
"I don't know what you expect me to say. I don't know what you're talking
about.ThatgloveisMrs.Tarrant's--shelefthereonlyafewminutesago."
Mrs.Tracy'ssallowfacegrew sallower.Hesawthatshe wasunpreparedfor
theanswerandnotwhollyinclinedtobelieveit."Mrs.Tarrant--whatwasshe
doinghere?"
"Shecametoseeme."
"Andwhatwereyoudoinghere?""Writing,asyousee."
Mrs.Tracywassilentforamoment,hereyesfixedincredulouslyonthepiled-
uppagesbeforeher."I'dliketoknowwhoitisletsyouin,"shesaidatlength.
"Why,Mrs.Tarrantletmeintoday,ofcourse."
"Today!Maybeshedid.I'mnottalkingonlyabouttoday.It'snottheonlyday
you'vebeenhere."
Vancehesitated.Hehadexpectedtosilencehismother-in-law,anddispelher
suspicions, by naming Mrs. Tarrant--one of the few persons who had the
undisputed right to come and go in that house. But it would be a different
matter, he instantly felt, to let Mrs. Tracy associate Halo's name with the
frequentandclandestinevisitsofwhichsheevidentlysuspectedhim.Hewas
convincednowthatshehadcomeonpurposetosurprisehim,astheresultof
informationreceived;andhewasneverready-wittedinemergencies.
"Well, I don't know's I need ask who lets you in," she pursued. "You had
plentyoftimetohaveduplicatekeysmadewhileIwassick."
"CertainlyIhad--ifithadoccurredtometodoanythingsolow-down.""Low-
down?Iguessitisn'tthatwouldhavepreventedyou,ifyou'dbeen
setoncominghere,whetheritwastostealbooksortomeetwomen...
maybeboth..."sheflungback,trembling.
HeragitationhadasteadyingeffectonVance."Whynotboth,asyousay?"he
rejoinedimpartially,beginningtogatheruphispapers.Hewassureshewas
not there without a definite purpose, and it was obviously safer to leave the
burdenofexplanationonhershoulders.Afterall,hehadnothingtoreproach
himselfwithbutthevenialwrongofconcealingfromLauraLouthathedid
his writing at the Willows, and not at the New Hour office. He had been
slavingallsummertopayoffthemoneyMrs.TracyhadacceptedfromBunty
Hayes, and the women had better leave him alone, or he'd know why. . . .
Silently he crammed his papers into their usual storing- place and walked
towardthedoor.
Mrs.Tracysteppedinfrontofhim."Whereareyougoing?""Home."
"Home? It's a place you don't often trouble. Why don't you do your writing
there--ifit'swritingyousayyoucomeherefor?"
"BecauseI'mneverleftalone,"hesaid,hisangerrisingagain.Mrs.Tracysaw
herchanceandlaughed."Notwiththerightwoman,youmean?"
Vancehaltedinfrontofher.Afterall,iftherewasascenecoming--andhesaw
shewasnottobecheatedoutofit--betterhaveitoutherethanwait
and risk Laura Lou's being drawn in. "What is it you're driving at? I can't
answertillIknow,"hesaidsullenly.
"Well,answermethis,then.Who'sthewomanyoucomeheretomeet?"
The blood rose to his face. "Nonsense. I told you Mrs. Tarrant came here
today.You'dbettergivemehergloveandI'lltakeitbacktoher."
Mrs.Tracypaidnoattentiontothis.Shehesitatedamoment;thenshesaid:
"Youhaven'tansweredmyquestionyet.It'snogoodbeatingroundthebush.
Theneighboursallknowaboutwhat'sbeengoingonhere.LauraLou'shada
letterwarningher.Yousay,what amIdrivingat?Well,I'mheretofindout
whatyouproposetodo,nowwe'vecaughtyou.That'splainenough,isn'tit?"
She flung the words out in a kind of shrill monotone, as if she had learned
themfromsomeoneelseandwereafraidofnotgettingthemintherightorder.
Vancewasspeechless.Hismindhadseizedononephrase:"LauraLou'shada
letter," and he turned sick with an unformed apprehension. "What nonsense
areyoutalking?Whatkindofletter?I'vegotnothingtohideandnothingto
explain.Ifyouhavetheletterwithyou,you'dbetterletmeseeit,andifIcan
findthesneakwhowroteitI'llgoandbreakhisneck."
Mrs.Tracylaughed."Well,you'llhavesometroubledoingthat,Iguess.But
theletterisn'there--it'slockedupathome.It'sdoneenoughharmtomypoor
childalready--"
"Whowroteit?"Vanceinterrupted."It'snotsigned."
"Ithoughtasmuch.Thatkindneveris.Andyou'vecomeheretospyonmeon
thestrengthofaragofpaperwithGodknowswhatanonymousslanderonit?"
Hetookhishatupagain,andashedidso,hiseyelitonthekeyswhichHalo,
in leaving, had laid beside him. They were no good to him now; he would
neverusethemagain,nevercomebackherewithouther.Hewouldtakethem
backtoEaglewoodthisverynight,withtheglove....
Heputtheminhispocketandturnedagaintohismother-in-law."Icomehere
to work, not to meet women." This sounded impressive, and in a way was
true--yet he didn't care for the ring of it. He cleared his throat, and began
again:"Ifyou'llgivemeMrs.Tarrant'sgloveI'llsenditback."
ForallanswerMrs.Tracyopenedherhandbag(itwastheveryonethebridal
couplehadboughtforherontheirreturntoPaul'sLanding),andputtheglove
init,snappingshuttheimitationivoryclasp.
"Seehere--givemethatglove,"Vanceburstout;thencrimsonedathisblunder.
Mrs.Tracytuckedthebagunderherarm."I'llseetoreturningit,"shesaid.
He affected indifference. "Oh, very well--" There was a pause, and then he
added."Ifthat'sall,I'llbeoff."
Mrs.Tracy,however,continuedtoopposehimfromthethreshold."It'snotall-
-nothinglike.Iguessit'sformetodecideaboutthat."
Vancewaitedamoment:angryashewas,hehadthesensetowanttocheck
Mrs.Tracy'srecriminations."Ifthere'sanythingelsetobesaid,Iguessit'sfor
Laura Lou to say it. I'm going back home now to give her the chance," he
declared.
Mrs.Tracy raised her hand in agitation. "No, Vance--no! You won't do that.
The letter's half killed her, anyway. And you know she can't stand anything
that excites and worries her. . . ." She paused a moment, and added with a
certaindignity:"That'swhyIcamehere--itwastospareher."
Vancepondered."Wasitherideathatyoushouldcome?"
"No,shedoesn'tevenknowI'mhere.Itoldherwe'dhavetotakestepstofind
out--but she was so upset she wouldn't listen. My child's a nervous wreck,
Vance.That'swhatyou'vemadeofher."
"IfI'vemadeheranervouswreck,isityourideathatit'sgoingtoquietherif
you go back and report--as you apparently mean to do--that I come here to
meetotherwomen?"
ThereasoningofthiswasalittletoocloseforMrs.Tracy'sflurriedbrain.She
considered it for a while, and then said: "I didn't come here to go back and
reporttoher."
Vancelookedatherinastonishment."Thenwhatonearthdidyoucomefor?
Your imagination is so worked up against me that all my denials wouldn't
convinceyou--Iseethat.ButifLauraLou'stobeleftoutofthequestion--"
Hismother-in-lawmovednearertohim,withalookofappealinherfacethat
madeithumanagain."Italldependsonyou,Vance."
"Well,youdon'tsuppose--"
"I don't suppose you want to hurt Laura Lou more than you can help--any
morethanI do," she continued, with an effortat persuasiveness. "And what
I'mhereforistoaskyoutospareher...giveherachance...beforeit'stoo
late...."Sheliftedherhandsentreatingly."ForGod'ssake,Vance,lethergo
withoutafight.It'sherchancenow,andImeansheshalltakeit;butifyou'll
letitbeeasyforher,I'llletitbeeasyforyou--onmysacredword.Vance...
Seehere;I'vegotyouwhereIcanmakemyowntermswithyou
...I'vegotmyproofs...I'vegotthewhiphandofastheysay..."Shebroke
off,andwentoninanalteredvoice:"Butthat'snotthewayIwantto
talktoyou,Vance.Ijustwanttosay:Whynotrecognizeit'sallbeenafailure
andamistakefromthefirst,andsetmychildfreebeforeit'stoo
late?"
"Toolateforwhat?"
"For her to get back her health--to enjoy her youth as she ought to. . . ."
Vance'sbrainwasstillsoconfusedwiththeshockofMrs.Tarrant'sabrupt
leave-takingthatthisfreshassaultonhisemotionslefthimdazed.Mrs.Tracy
hatedhim;hadalwayshatedhim.Hehadlongbeencarelesslyawareofthat,
and had instantly seen how eagerly she must have caught at this chance of
gettingthewhiphandofhim,asshecalledit;offindingherselfjustifiedinall
herdisappointmentsandresentments.Buthehadnotsuspectedthatshemight
haveamorepracticalobjectinmind,thatwhatshewantedwasnottoinjure
him but to free Laura Lou. It was dull of him, no doubt, it was
incomprehensible even, that, having lived all his life in a world of painless
divorce,whereachangeofmatewasoftenamerestepinsocialadvancement,
itshouldnever have occurred to him that he and Laura Lou could part. But
though he had often chafed at the bondage of his unconsidered marriage,
thoughhehadlongsinceceasedtothinkofhiswifeasthecompanionofhis
innerlife,andhadstoopedtosubterfugestoescapeherfondsolicitude...yet
nowhermother'sproposalfilledhimwithspeechlesswrath.HeandLauraLou
divorced!...HeturnedtoMrs.Tracy."Areyoutalkingseriously?"
Ofcourseshewas,shesaid.Wouldn'thetryandunderstandherandlistento
her,andnotgetallworkedup,andmakehersonervousshecouldn'tgetout
whatshehadtosay...?
"Havetosay?"heinterrupted."Whoobligesyou?YousayLauraLoudoesn't
knowyou'rehere."
Mrs.Tracy'sembarrassmentincreased.WhenVanceflewoutatherlikethat,
she said, she couldn't keep her wits together; and what was to be gained by
makingafuss,anyhow?Shewasdetermined,whateverhesaid,thatherchild
shouldbefreetomakeafreshstart,andgetbackherhealthandspirits....
Shetalkedonandoninthesamehalfscaredyetobstinatetone.They'dbeen
marriedtooyoung, shesaid;thathadalways beenher chiefobjectiontothe
match.AndVancewithnofixedprospects...ornotenoughtosupportawife
on,anyhow...andhisparentsdoingnothing...andLauraLou'shealthso
delicate,andherlungs threatened since that crazy climb up the mountain in
the snow, and no way, as far as her mother knew, for her to get to a mild
climateforthewinter, as the doctor said she ought to, ifshewastogether
lungshealed....Mrs.Tracypaused,breathlessanddrawn."Italldependson
you,Vance,"shebeganagain,stillpantingalittle."You'vegotyourownlife--
yourownambitions.Idon'tsaybutwhatyou'llgoagreatwayyet,andmaybe
getontoabignewspaperjobsomeday.Butmeantime,howareyougoingto
get ahead with a sick wife on your hands--and your own family not doing
anythingtohelp?...Lethergo,Vance;Isayitinyourowninterestaswellas
hers; for pity's sake, let her go. Think what it would be to you to be free
yourself."
He stood with bent head, her last words resounding strangely in his ears.
"Thinkwhatitwouldbetobefreeyourself."Hehadnotthoughtofthat.
"Lethergo--gowhere?"
South, Mrs. Tracy hurriedly explained--to California somewhere. That was
whatthedoctorsaid.She'dworkeditalloutwithUpton.Uptonhadhadthe
offerofajobinabigCalifornianursery,andhewouldmakeuphismindto
take it if his mother would go out and keep house for him; and Mrs. Tracy
wouldsellthelittleplaceatPaul'sLandingforwhateveritwouldbring,ifonly
theycouldgetLauraLouawaybeforethecoldweather....Andoutthere,in
someofthosewesternstates,folkssaidyoucouldgetadivorceaseasyasyou
getacakeofyeastatthegrocer's.Justwalkinandaskforit;andnothingsaid
againsteitherparty...noquestionaboutotherwomenoranything...sothat
ifVancewantedtomarryagainhe'dhaveacleanslate
...absolutely...."Oh,Vance,ifyouonlywould--ifyou'donlyagreetopart
asfriends,andletmychildhaveherchance!"Mrs.Tracybrokeoffinaspasm
ofdrysobbing.
Vancedidnotafterwardrecallhowthediscussionended.Heonlyknewthat
duskhadfallenwhenheandMrs.Tracyatlengthleftthehouse.As
they turned down the lane they saw the lights of the high road, and the
illuminatedtrolleysjoggingby.Mrs.Tracygotintooneanddisappeared.
Vancesatdownunderaroadlampandpulledascrapofpaperfromhispocket.
Hewroteonit:"Idon'twantthese;I'llnevergobackthere,"wrappedthekeys
inthepaper,andaddressedittoMrs.Tarrant.Thenhecaughtthenexttrolley,
andwascarriedasfarasitwentinthedirectionofEaglewood.Hemeantto
walk up there and leave the keys for her; after that he would see. The late
Augustnightwashushedbutnotoppressive;thestarsalreadyseemedtohang
higherthaninmidsummer,asifrecedingtoautumnaltitudes;asheclimbed
therewasastirofairintheupperbranches.Thewalkmighthelptoclearthe
confusionfromhisbrain;atanyrate,itwasoutofthequestiontofollowMrs.
Tracyhome.Firstofallhehadtobebyhimself,andintheopen....
The Eaglewood gate was unlatched, and he walked along the drive to the
house.Itlaylowandspreadingundermysterioustreeshadows,andhethought
of the day when he had been caught asleep in the broken-down motor, and
broughtthere,abewilderedculprit,bythescandalizedJacob.Everystepwas
thick with memories which in the making had worn no special look of
happiness, but were now steeped in it. He remembered how ashamed and
angry he had been when Jacob had shoved him into the hall among those
unknownpeople....
Throughthecanopyoffoliageoneortwolightspeepedfromtheupperpanes,
butthelowerfloorwasdark,theshutterswerenotclosed.Perhapseverybody
was still out. Silence and night seemed stealing unnoticed into the empty
rooms,andVancewouldhavelikedtoopenoneofthewindowsandentertoo.
...Butashestoodonthelawn,alittlewayoff,alightappearedinoneofthe
drawingroomwindows,andheheardafewchordsstruckonthepiano,and
voices rising and falling. Without looking to see who was in the room he
hurriedbackintotheshadeofthedrive,anddroppedthekeysintotheletter
boxbythefrontdoor.Theywereallstrangerstohim,thosepeople--hedidnot
belongupthere,inthelightandmusicandease,anymorethanhedidinthe
dismal Tracy house below. He walked away heavy with that sense of
inexorable solitude which sometimes oppresses young hearts. From all the
gloriousworldshecouldimagineheseemedequallyshutout....
Wheredidhebelongthen?Why,withhimself!Theideacamelikeaflashof
light. What did he want with other people's worlds when he would create
universesofhisown?Whathewantedwasindependence,freedom,solitude--
andtheycostlessthanhousesandfurniture,andmuchlessthan
humanties.Mrs.Tracy'swordscamebacktohim:"Thinkwhatitwouldbeto
youtobefreeyourself."
Outinthelaneagain,hecontinuedtoclimb.Throughpearlycloudsthemoon
oflatesummerclimbedwithhim,lightingthewaycapriciously,asithadbeen
lit by Halo's motor lamps that morning before daylight when they had
mountedtoThundertop.Hehadbeenfreethen,theworldhadlainbeforehim
in all its conquerable glory. And a few months of discouragement and the
unexpectedsightofafreshfacehadannihilatedeverything,andreducedhim
tothepoorthinghenowwas.Hewalkedandwalked,unconsciousoftheway,
drivenbytheneedofbeingaloneandfarfromtherealitiestowhichhemust
sosooncomeback.Atlengthhethrewhimselfdownonaledgefromwhich
he could catch a first twist of the moon-silvered Hudson, remote and
embosomedinmidnightforest.
"Thinkwhatitwouldbetoyoutobefree."Thatwaswhattheywereoffering
him...thereturntothatotherworld,theworldhehadlookeddownonfrom
Thundertop.
He tried to clear his mind of anger and confusion and look at his case
dispassionately.TheTracycasewasplainenough;fromthefirst,verylikely,
Mrs.Tracyhadbeenbentongettingridofhim,ongivingLauraLouwhatshe
calledherchance.Butshewasnotawomanofinitiative,andwouldprobably
haveendedbyresigningherselfifsomepersistent influence had not pushed
herforward.Upton's--?VanceshruggedawaythethoughtofUpton...Hayes,
of course! The blood rushed to his forehead. He could hear Bunty Hayes
rehearsing the scene with Mrs. Tracy. Very likely they had cooked up the
anonymousletterbetweenthem.Andnowtheyweregoingtoturnhimoutlike
aboarderwhoseroomwaswanted...thatwasaboutthewaytheylookedat
it...."Nothingeasier...slickasabutton..."Hayeswouldsay....
Well,whynot?
Helaythere,stretchedoutontheledge,andlookeddownintothenocturnal
depths.Inthecontemplationofthatwidespreadbeautycalmerthoughtscame
back,littlethingsfellaway....WhathadhebeenabletodoforLauraLou?
Whathadshedoneforhim?Thetiebetweenthemhadsoquicklybecomea
habit,anaquiescence,nothingmore.PerhapsLauraLouhadbeenconsciousof
that too, perhaps she too had chafed and longed for freedom--or simply for
relief from worry, for material well-being, a home of her own--all that he
couldnevergiveher.Hiseyesfilled....Whatwastheretopreventtheirboth
tryingagain?
He could not find the answer to this question. He had never heard of any
reasonwhymarriedpeopleshouldn'tagreetopartandbeginlifeagainifthey
wantedto. . . only he could not picture its happeningtohimselfandLaura
Lou.Wheneverhetriedto,itwasasifamilliondelicatetendrils,ofwhichhe
wasunconsciouswhenheandsheweretogether,tightenedabouthisheartand
helditfasttohers,inastrangebondagecloserthanthatofloveordesire.He
lay and lay there, and tried to puzzle it out, but in vain. His last conclusion
was:"Ofcourseifshereallywantstobefree,sheshallbe--"andforaninstant
hissoul blazed againwiththe rekindled lightofopportunity... . Afterthat,
wornout,hefellasleeponhisledge....
It was broad daylight when he woke up, aching and hungry. His watch had
stopped, but from the position of the sun he judged it must be after eight
o'clock.Hisfirstcravingwasthatofaravenousboy--foracupofMrs.Tracy's
hotcoffee.Whatwasallthefussabout,anyhow?Howdifferentthingslooked
bydaylight,withthesameoldsunlightingupthesameolddailyroadofduty.
There was the office, there was his wife--and, oh hallelujah, there was his
work! He sprang down from rock to rock, reached the road, and hurried
homeward.
WhenhegottoMrs.Tracy'sdoorheranupthestepscallingoutLauraLou's
name.Whatnonsenseitallseemednow,thatrantingsceneoflastnight!Butto
his astonishment the door was locked. He called again, shook the handle,
bangedonthepanel--butnooneanswered.Hewalkedaroundtothebackof
the house, expecting to find his mother-in-law among the currant bushes.
"Laura Lou is sound asleep still, I suppose?" he would begin jokingly. But
therewasnooneamongthevegetableseither,andthedoorofthebackporch
was also locked. Vance stepped back and threw a handful of pebbles at his
wife'swindow,callingouttoheragain.Againtherewasnoanswer.
Hereturnedtothefrontdoor,shookandrattleditwithoutresult,andfinally,
disheartened,satdownonthedoorstepandwondered....
All the way down the mountain conciliatory phrases, jokes, words of
endearmenthadcrowdedtohislips--anythingtosmooththewaybacktothe
old life. And now he was confronted by this silent hostile house, which
seemed to know nothing of him, but stared down from blank forbidding
windowsasifonanintruder.
An intruder? Was it possible that he was already that? By God, no! His
smoulderingwrath againstMrs. Tracyblazedup again.Itwas allherdoing,
whatever had happened. She wouldn't rest till she had separated him from
LauraLou....Hewasbeginningtofeelasortofterroratthesilenthouseand
theunknownbehindit.Hesawthesonofaneighbourwalkingdownthelane,
andstoodupandhailedhim."Seehere--I'mjusthome,andIguessI'mlocked
out.Seenmywomenfolkroundanywhere?"heaskedfacetiously.
Yes,theyouthsaid,hehad;he'dmetthemupthelane.Theyweregoingtosee
ifthey could getDixon'steam totakethem to thestation,they toldhim;he
guessedtheyweretakingsomebaggagewiththem,forastay....Hegrinned
andloafedon,andVancestoodandlookedafterhimwithoutmoving.Ithad
allbeenplannedinadvance,then;theyweregoingtothecity--goingstraight
toBuntyHayes,nodoubt!Hewouldhavesecuredroomsforthem,wherethey
couldstaytilltheystartedforCalifornia....
Vance walked dizzily back to the porch. It was true, then--it had really
happened, this thing which was still inconceivable to him. He stood there
staringabouthimlikeamanwakingoutofsleep;andashedidso,henoticed
asuitcaseand two or three insecurely tied bundles in a corner of the porch.
They had already packed, then; they would come back presently to pick up
theirbelongings.
Itwasallasqueerandtelescopicasthingspiledupinanightmare.Yesterday
morning this house had been his home and Laura Lou's--now it was shut,
empty,unrelatedtothem.Thatphaseofitsexistenceandtheirswasover....
Hiseyelitcasuallyonthesuitcase,andherecognizeditastheonewhichhad
accompaniedhimandLauraLouontheirhoneymoon.Hesatdownbesideit
ontheflooroftheporch,andrecalledhowhehadunpackeditonthebeachon
theirweddingdayandpulledouttheirstickyoozingweddingbreakfast.And
howLauraLouhadhadherfirsttasteofchampagneoutofaseashell!Andit
hadbeenhisfirsttaste,too--onlyhehadgotoutofthewayrememberingthat.
...
His eyes filled, and he was overcome by the sudden boyish craving to see
somethingbelongingtoherandtouchit.Itseemedtohimnowthatheandshe
had really parted long ago; that the laughing child who had helped him to
unpackthelunchfromthatsuitcasehadformonthspastbeenfartherfromhim
than there were miles between Paul's Landing and California. He had not
meantittobeso;hadnotbeenawarethatitwasso--butnowitcameoverhim
that perhaps, for Laura Lou, the knot had long since been untied, that the
anonymousletterhadbeenapretextlongwaitedfor,perhapsprovoked.Atthe
thought,thephysicalsenseofherstolebackon
him;itwasclingingandpotent,liketheperfumeofagardeninJune.Vance
bentoverthesuitcase,andhardlyknowingwhathedid,pushedopenthelock
andliftedthelid.Herpoorlittlepossessionshadbeencrammedincarelessly
andinhaste,andontop,flattenedoutanddisjointed,laytheoldstuffeddove
fromthegiltbaskethehadsenttohermother.
The sight caught him by the throat. He knelt for a long time, clutching the
limpmoth-eatenbirdinbothhands.Hehadnotthoughtofthedoveforages--
but he remembered now having noticed that she had fastened it by a wire
abovethelittlelookingglassonherchestofdrawers.Ithadhungthere,alittle
crooked, with one wing limp, ever since they had come back from their
honeymoon.
Hehadhardlynoticedit;butshehadremembered,inthehasteandgriefofher
going,tounfastenitfromitsperchandcramitintoherburstingsuitcase."But
ifshefeelslikethat,whyisshegoing?"Thethoughtrushedthroughhimlikea
burst of warm rain in spring, softening, vivifying. He was afraid of nothing
now,withtheoldstuffeddoveinhishand!Hestoodup,pressingittohim,as
thewheelsofDixon'scarryallhaltedbeforethegate.
BOOKVI
XXXII
"UnderawaningmoonthelittlefleetstoodoutfromPondicherry..."Vance
satlostinhisvision.Thephrasehadmurmuredinhisbrainallday.
Pondicherry--where was it? He didn't even know. Memories of the movies
furnishedthevagueexoticismofthescene:clusteredpalms,arcaded
houses,duskywomenwithbasketsoftropicalfruit.Butlowerthanthis
surfacepicture,ofwhichthecinemahadrobbedhim,thetruePondicherry-
-his--hung before him like a mirage, remote, rare and undefiled. . . .
Pondicherry! What a name! Its magic syllables concealed the subject of his
newtale,asflowerpetalscurveoverthebuddingfruit....Hesawaharbour
litbyaheavyredmoon,thedustycobblestonesofthequay,alowblue-white
housewithaterraceoverthewater....
"VanceWeston--wakeup,fortheLord'ssake!Don'tlookasifyouweretrying
tolisteninatagaspump...."
HerousedhimselftothefactthathewasinRebeccaStram'sstudio,perched
on a shaky platform, and leaning sideways in the attitude the sculptress had
imposedonhim...."Imusthavebeenasleep...."hemumbled.
The studio was an attic, self-consciously naked and untidy. Somebody had
startedtopaintmapsofthefourquartersoftheglobeonthebarewalls,but
hadgotboredafterAfrica,andthefourthquarterwasreplacedbyagigantic
Cubist conundrum which looked like a railway junction after a collision
between excursion trains but was cryptically labelled: "Tea and Toast for
One."
Alargeblackstovestoodoutfromonewall,andaboutitweregathered,that
Decemberafternoon,agroupofyoungmenasself-consciouslyshabbyasthe
room.TheonlyexceptionwasEricRauch,whosedappernessofdressseemed
proof against Bohemian influences, and who smoked cigarettes undauntedly
amongascornfulclusterofpipes.He,andeverybodyelse,knewthathewas
thereonly onsufferance,becausehewas oneofthe NewHourfellows, and
mightcomeinusefulanyday,andbecauseVanceWeston,theliteraryheroof
thehour,belonged--worseluck!--totheNewHour.EricRauch,inspiteofhis
little volume of esoteric poetry, was regarded as a Philistine by the group
aboutRebecca'sstove,thefellowswhowroteforthenewestliteraryreviews
andthelatestexperimentaltheatres.Buttheyknewitwasallintheday'swork
for Rebecca to portray the last successful novelist, and as poor Weston was
ownedbytheNewHour,theyhadtosufferRauchashisbearleader.
AbovethestovetheywerediscussingThisGlobe,GratzBlemer'snewnovel,
andVance,rousedoutofhisdreamofPondicherry,indolentlylistened.Atfirst
these literary symposia had interested and stimulated him; he felt as if he
couldnotgetenoughofthecrypticwisdomdistilledbytheseyoungmen.But
aftertenorfifteensittingstoRebecca,aboutwhosestovetheyweregivento
congregating, he had gone the round of their wisdom, and come back still
hungry.
Heknewexactly,beforehand,whattheyweregoingtosayaboutThisGlobe,
andwasbewilderedanddiscouragedbecausehedidnotsee howthey could
possiblyadmireitasmuchastheyprofessedtoiftheyalsoadmiredInstead.
Andofthatfacttherecouldbenodoubt.Insteadhadtakenasmuchwiththe
Cocoanut Tree crowd as with what they contemptuously called the parlour
critics. It was one of those privileged books which somehow contrive to
insinuatethemselvesbetweenthebarriersofcoterieandcategory,andareas
likelytobefoundinthehandsofthecommuterhurryingtohisofficeasofthe
wild-haired young men in gaudy pullovers theorizing in the void about
Rebecca'sstove.
RebeccaStram,clothedtothechinindirtylinen,steppedbackwithscrewed-
upeyes,gaveadabattheclay,andsighed:"Ifyou'donlyfallinlovewithme
I'dmakeabigthingoutofthis...."
Vanceheardher,butdrewamaskofvacancyoverhisface.Love--fallingin
love!Were there any wordsinthe language as hateful to him, or as void of
meaning?Hislove,hethought,waslikehisart--somethingwithasignificance
sodifferentfromthecurrentonethatwhenthewordwasspokenbeforehima
doorflewshutinhissoul,closinghiminwithhisowngropingardours.Love!
DidheloveLauraLou--hadheeverlovedher?Whatothernamecouldhegive
totheupwellingemotionwhichhadflunghimbackinherarmswhenshehad
driven up to the door that day in Dixon's carryall?Itwas over a year since
then;andhedidnotyet understand why the passion which had shaken him
thatdaytotherootsofhisbeinghadnottransformedandrenewedboththeir
lives.Themerethoughtthatshewasleavinghim--andleavinghimbecausehe
hadunwittinglywounded,neglectedher--hadopenedanabyssathisfeet.That
was what life would be to him without her: a dark pit into which he felt
himselfcrashingheadlong,likefallinginanaeroplaneatnight....Ithadn't
taken five minutes to break up Mrs. Tracy's plan, win back Laura Lou, and
laugh away all the bogies bred of solitude and jealousy--poor child, she'd
actuallybeenjealousofhim!Andhehadbeenyoungenough(ayearago)to
imagine that one can refashion life in five minutes--remould it, as that man
Fitzgeraldsaid,nearertotheheart'sdesire!...God--thevainlongingofthe
soulofmanforsomethingdifferent,wheneverythinginhumanrelationsisso
eternallyalike,unchangingandunchangeable!
TheyhadbrokenupatPaul'sLanding.Mrs.Tracy,embitteredandresentful,
had sold the house and gone to California with Upton. But Laura Lou had
remained,reconciled,enraptured,andVancehadbroughthertoNewYorkto
live....Couldanythingbemoredifferent,toallappearances?Andyet,ina
week,hehadknownthateverythingwasgoing
tobeexactlythesame--andthatthecentreandsourceofallthesamenesswere
LauraLouandherownlittleunchangeableself....
"What you feel about Blemer's book" (one of the fellows was haranguing
between pipe-puffings) "is that it's so gorgeously discontinuous, like life--"
(life discontinuous? Oh, God! Vance thought.) "Not a succession of scenes
fittingintoeachother withthe damneddead logicofa picturepuzzle, buta
drunkenorgyofunrelatedness...."
"Not like Fynes, eh?" (Vance thought: "Last year Tristram Fynes was their
idol," and shivered a little for his own future.) "Poor old Fynes," another of
them took it up; "sounded as if he's struck a new note because he made his
peopletalkinthevernacular.Nothingelsenewabouthim--mighthaveworked
uphismethodoutofZola.Probablydid."
"Zola--who'she?"somebodyyawned.
"Oh,Idunno.TheFrenchThackeray,Iguess."
"See here, fellows, who's read Thackeray, anyhow?" "Nobody since Lytton
Strachey,Iguess."
"Well,anyway,ThisGlobeisonegreatbigbook.Eh,Vance,thatthewayyou
seeit?"
Vancerousedhimselfandlookedatthespeaker."NotthewayIseelife.Life's
continuous."
"Gee! I guess you're confusing life with Rebecca. Let him get down and
stretch his legs a minute, Becka, or he'll be writing books like The Corner
Grocery."
UndershelterofthegenerallaughVanceshiftedhispositionandlitacigarette.
"Oh, well--" Rebecca Strain grumbled, laying down her modelling tool and
takingalightfromhismatch.
"Lifecontinuous--continuous?Why,it'saseriesofjumpsinthe dark. That's
Mendel'slaw,anyhow,"anotherbuddingcritictookuptheargument.
"Gee!Who'sMendel?Anothernewnovelist?"
"Mendel?No.He'stheguythatinventedtheprincipleofeconomyoflabour.
That'swhatMendelismis,isn'tit?"
"Well,I'mshattered!Why,youmorons,MendelwastheVictorianfellowthat
foundoutaboutNature'sproceedingbyjumps.Heworkeditoutthatshe'sa
regularkangaroo.BeforethatalltheDarwinsandpeoplethoughtsheplanned
thingsoutbeforehand,likeacarefulmother--ortheplotofaFynesnovel."
Fynes had become their recognized butt, and this was greeted by another
laugh. Rebecca threw herself full length on the broken-springed divan,
grumbling: "Well, it's too dark to go on. When'll you come back, Vance--
tomorrow?"
Vancehesitated.LauraLouwasbeginningtoobjecttothenumberofsittings--
beginning,hefancied,tosuspectthattheywereapretext;justas,underher
mother's persuasion, she had suspected that his work at the Willows was a
pretextformeetingMrs.Tarrant.Oh,hell--togiveonebigshakeandbefree!
"Yes,tomorrow,"herangoutresolutely,asifLauraLoucouldhearhim,and
resent his challenge. . . . When the sittings began he had begged her to
accompanyhimtothestudio."WhentheStramgirlseesyoushe'lldoyouand
not me," he had joked; and the glow of gratified vanity had flown to her
cheeks. But she had gone with him, and nobody had noticed her--neither
Rebeccanoranyoftheyoungmen.Themerelybeautifulwasnotindemand
in Rebecca's crowd--was in fact hardly visible to them. Or rather, they had
forcedbeautyintoanewformula,intowhichLauraLou'sobviousloveliness
didnotfit.Andwhenshehadmurmured:"Why,youdon'tsay..."or:"See
here,Iguess you'requizzing me,"herconversationalmoveswere atanend,
andshecouldonlysit,lovelyandunperceived,inacloudofdisappointment.
SheneverwentbacktoRebecca's.
EricRauchwalkedawaywithVance,andasthey reached the street Vance's
bruisedsoulspokeout."HearingthosefellowstalkIdon'tseewhattheycan
findinmybook."
"Why,theyhaveagoodtimereadingit.Theycracktheirteethovertheirown
conundrums,andnowandthentheyjustindulgeintheluxuryoflyingback
andreadingarealbook."
"ButtheybelievedinFyneslastyear."
"Sure.And they believed in you tillGratzBlemer came along. Whatyou've
gottodonowistogoBlemeronebetter--doyourbigNewYorknovelinhis
style,"Rauchendedwithalaugh,astheirwaysparted.
Vancewasgoinghome;buthefeltwithinhimselfadammed-upfloodoftalk,
andas he reached WashingtonSquareitoccurredto him that Frenside lived
nearby, and might sometimes be found at that hour. Vance did not often see
Frensidenowadays.Thelatterseldom came to the New Hour, and Vance as
seldomwenttoMrs.Tarrant's,wheretheoldcriticwasmostoftentobemet.
Vance'srelationwiththeTarrantshadshrunk--byhisownchoice--tobusiness
intercourse with Tarrant at the office. Some native clumsiness had made it
impossible for him, after he came to New York, to work out a manner, an
attitude,towardHaloTarrant.Otherfellowsknewhow;tookthatsortofthing
intheirstride;buthecouldn't.Theartofsocialtransitionswasstillamystery
to him. He remembered once hearing his grandmother (rebuked by Mrs.
Weston for bad management and extravagance) say plaintively: "Why,
daughter,IpresumeIcangowithout-
-butIcan'teconomize."Vanceunderstoodthat:morallyandmaterially,hehad
neverknownhowtoeconomize.Buthecouldgowithout--atleasthesupposed
hecould....
Halo, who had heard of their arrival in New York from her husband, had
writtenafriendlylittlenotetoLauraLou,askingherandVancetolunch;and
LauraLou,afteravisiblestrugglebetweenherirrepressiblejealousyandthe
determinationtoprovetoVancethatshehadneverbeenjealous(howcouldhe
havethoughtso,darling?)--LauraLouhaddecidedthattheymustaccept.
Theydid,andtheresultwasdisastrous.Fromthefirstmomenteverythinghad
bewilderedLauraLouandrousedherinarticulateresentment.Shewasusedto
Halo--didn'tcareastrawwhatshethoughtofanybodyoranything.
. . . Hadn't she seen her, for years, coming and going at the Willows? They
weredistantcousinstoo--Haloneedn'thaveremindedherofthatinhernote!
Butshe hadnever seenMrs.Tarrant inthis settingofNewYork luxuryand
elegance;shehadnevermetTarrant,whoatoncestruckherasheartlessand
sardonic; she had never seen people like the other guests, men young and
elderly,allonafootingofintimacywiththeirhosts,andtalking
carelessly, allusively, easily, of people and things that Laura Lou had never
heardof....ShedidnotconfessawordofthistoVance;shedidnothaveto.
Herfacewaslikeaclearpoolreflectingeverychangeinashiftingsky.
Hecouldmeasure,partlyfromhisownmemories,partlyfromhisknowledge
ofher,theimpactofeveryallusion,everyunexpectedgestureorturnofphrase
of the people about her. The mere way in which the lunch was served was
somethingtomarvelatandberesented--didn'theknow?
("Caviar? That what you call it--that nasty gray stuff that smelt like motor
grease?No,Ididn'ttouchit...WhenIwatchedyoueatingitIthoughtyou'd
besick,sure...."andsoon.)Fortherest,shetooktheadventureas
something completely matter-of-course and not worth discussing, and
remained coldly surprised, faintly ironic, and indifferent. Is that all? her
attitudeseemedtosay.Buthowwellheknewwhatwasunderit!
SincethenhehadneverbeenbacktoMrs.Tarrant's.Whatwastheuse?Notto
seeheratallwaslessofaprivationseeingherlikethat....Shehadsenthim,
afewdayslater,anoteaskinghowthenovelwasgettingon,andwhenhewas
comingtoreadthenextchapterstoher;andhehadnotanswered.Hedidnot
knowhowtoexcusehimselffromgoingtoseeher,andwasresolvedtoavoid
thetormentofrenewingtheirfriendship.Sothemonthspassed,andtheydid
notmeet....
Hecaredonlyforhisworknow,orsohetoldhimself.Itwashisonerefuge
frommaterialandmoralconditionssostiflingandembitteringthatbutforthat
otherworldtoescapetohewouldhaveborrowedarevolverandmadeanend.
...Buthisworktoowasbecomingaperplexity.Bythetimehehadfinished
Instead forty subjects were storming at the gates of his imagination and
clamouring for embodiment. But his first encounter with the perplexing
contradictorytheoriesofthedifferentliterarygroupstowhichthesuccessof
his book introduced him, all the wild currents and whirlpools of critical
opinion in New York, had shaken his faith in himself; not in his powers of
exposition and expression, which seemed to grow more secure with every
page he wrote, but in his choice of a theme, a point of view, what the
politicians called a "platform." It had never before occurred to him that the
artistneededany,exceptthattowhichhisinvisiblerootsstruckdown,inthe
depths ruled by The Mothers; but these fellows with their dogmas and
paradoxes,theircontradictorypronouncementsandcondemnations,thoughall
theysaidseemedsoonthesurface,excitedhisimaginationandyetunsettled
it."WhatIneedisagoodtalkwithsomebodyoutsideofitall,"hethought,his
mind instinctively turning to Halo Tarrant; but it turned from her again
abruptly,andheconcluded:"Atalkwithaman--mucholder,andwithabigger
range. Somebody who'll listen to me, anyhow--" for that was what his
contemporarieswouldneverdo.
Heread"In"onthedingycardunderFrenside'sdoorbell,andranupstairsto
his door. Frenside, in a haze of pipe smoke, let him in, and Vance found
himselfinasmallshabbyroom.Agreen-shadedlampmadeastudiouscircle
of light on a big table untidily stacked with books and reviews, and an old
steamerchairwitha rugon itwasdrawn uptoasmoulderingfire.Frenside
lookedsurprised,andthensaid:"Gladyou'vecome,"andsignedtoVanceto
take the seat opposite him. "Well, how are you standing your success?" he
enquired,settlingdownintohisdeckchair.
"Oh, I don't think much about what's done," Vance answered. "It's the thing
aheadthatbothersme."Hepaused,andthenasked:"CanItalktoyou?"and
theotherpushedouthisthornyeyebrowsandanswered:"Try."
"Well--it'sthisway.I'mnotabitlikethatfellowinthehymn.Onestepisn't
enoughforme.AndIcan'tseemtoseebeyond;I'minafogthatgetsthicker
andthicker."
Frensideleanedbackwithhalf-closedlidsandseemedtotakecounselofhis
pipe."Creativeordoctrinal?"
Vancesmiled."Oh,chieflydoctrinal,Iguess."
"Well,that'snotmortal.Outwithyoursymptoms."AndVancebegan.
ItwashisfirstopportunityforaquiettalkwithFrenside,andhesawatonce
thattherewasnothingtofearifonereallyhadsomethingtosaytohim.Vance
hadplentytosay;thedifficultywasthathedidnotquiteknowwheretobegin.
Butbeforehe haddoneflounderingFrensidehad takenthewordsoutofhis
mouthandwasformulatinghisproblemforhim,clearly,concisely.Hedidnot
haranguehim,butputaseriesofquestionsandhelpedVancetoanswerthem,
so that even when Frenside was talking Vance seemed to be listening to
himself.
"Yes--it's a bad time for a creator of any sort to be born, in this after-war
welter,withitsnewrecipeforimmortalityeverymorning.AndIsuppose,for
one thing, you're torn between the demands of your publishers, who want
another Instead, and your own impulse, which is to do something quite
different--outsideit,beyondit,awayfromit.Andwhenyouaddtothatallthe
critics (I believe they call themselves) knocking down their own standards
onceaday,andbuildingupotherstosuittheirpurblindnecessities--God,yes,
it'satougholdvocationthatwillforceitswaythroughthatyelpingcrowd,and
Idon'twonderayoungsterlikeyouisdazedbyit."
Vancelistenedattentively."I'mnotdazed,though,notexactly.IsaidIcouldn't
seearoundmeandoutsideofme.Butthere'sasteadylightsomewhereinside
ofme...."
"Yes,Ibelievethereis,"Frensidenodded.Hedrewathispipe,crossedoneleg
overanother,andfinallysaid:"I'dhavegivenagoldminetohavethatlight,at
yourage."
ThebloodrushedtoVance'sforehead."Oh,butyou--"
"No,notthat.ButI'mstrayingfromthesubject:whichis, plainly, what had
youbetterdonext?"
"Well,yes,that'sso."
"Andtheobviousanswer:'Followyourimpulse,'isnousewhenyouhavea
hundred impulses tugging at you from the inside, and all that clatter of
contradictoryopinionfromtheoutside,eh?"Frensideconsideredagain."The
trouble with you is that you're suffering from the self-distrust produced by
success. Nothing is as disintegrating as success: one blurb on a book jacket
candestroyaman'ssoulmoresurelythantheQuarterlykilledKeats.Andto
youngfellowslikeyou,afteryou'vemadeyourfirsthit,theworldisallone
vastblurb.Well,you'vegottostuffcottoninyourearsandgoahead...."
"Ahead,yousay?Butwhere?Well,Natureabhorsavoid,andtofillitshe's
wasteful--wildly wasteful. In the abstract, my advice would be: follow her
example. Be as wasteful as she is. Her darlings always are. Chase after one
impulseandanother;tryyourhandatthisandthat;letyourmasterpiecesdie
offbythedozenwithoutseeingthelight...Butwhat'stheuseofsuchtalk
nowadays?Besides,you've got to earn your living, haven't you?Well, that's
not a bad thing either. You don't want to risk getting lost in the forest of
dreams.Ithappens.And ifyouonce wentto sleepunderthedeadlyTree of
Alternativesyoumightneverwakeupagain.So--"Hepaused,relithispipe,
andblinkedatVancemeditatively.
"AsfarasIcansee,onetroubleisthis.Thethingyou'vejustdone(yes,I've
read it; Halo made me) well, it's a pretty thing, exquisite, in fact, and a
surprise,anoveltynowadays,asitspopularityhasproved.Butit'sathingthat
leads nowhere. An evocation--an emanation--something you wrought with
enchantments, eh? Well, now take hold of life as it lies around you; you
rememberGoethe:'Whereveryoutakeholdofit,it'sinteresting'?Soitis--but
onlyinproportionasyouare.There'sthecatch.Theartisthasgottofeedhis
offspringoutofhisowntissue.Enrichthat,dayandnight--perpetually.How?
...Ah,mydearfellow,that'sthequestion!Whatdoesthetortoisestandon...
?"
Vancesatsilent.Perhapshisadviserwasright.Perhapstheonlyreallyfruitful
fieldfortheartistwashisownday,hisowntownorcountry,afieldintowhich
he could plunge both hands and pluck up his subjects with their live roots.
Insteadhadcharmedhisreadersbyitsdifference--charmedthembecausethey
were unconsciously tired of incoherence and brutality; but the spell would
soonbreakbecause,asFrensidesaid,histalehadbeenan"emanation,"nota
reality.HehadgivenverylittleofwhatFrensidecalled
his "tissue" to its making. And now his thoughts reverted to Loot, the old
themewhichhad hauntedhimsincehisfirst daysinNewYork--itseemeda
centuryago--andhisimaginationinstantlysettoworkonit.
"I suppose you go out a good deal these days--see a good many people? A
novelistought to,atone timeoranother," Frensidecontinued. "Mannersare
yourtruematerial,afterall."
Vancehesitated."Idon'tgooutmuch."HecouldnotaddthatLauraLoumade
itimpossible;buthesaid,withequaltruth:"Factis,Ican'taffordit.Imean,
thetime--orthemoneyeither..."
"The money?" Frenside looked surprised. "Why, you ought to be raking in
royaltiesbynow.Idon'tsupposeyougotmuchoutoftheNewHourforyour
serial?No,Ithoughtnot.Thehighbrowpaperscan'tpay.Butthebook;why
it'sbeenoutthree orfour months,hasn'tit?Itwasagood dealtalked about
whileitwascomingoutinthereview,andyououghttohavehadahandsome
sum on the advance sales, and another instalment after three months. I
understandthat'stheregulararrangementforfiction--Iwishitwasforbook-
reviewing,"headdedmournfully.
Vance was glad of the opening; but for Frenside's question he would never
havehadthecouragetomentionhismaterialdifficulties,thoughitwaspartly
withthatobjectthathehad called.Buthefeltthe friendlinessundertheold
man'sgruffinterrogations,and his anxietyburst fromhim.No, hesaid,he'd
had no such privileges. The publishers, Dreck and Saltzer, to whom Tarrant
had bound him for three years for all book publication, had been visibly
disappointedbyInstead.Theydidn'tthinkthesubjectwouldtake,andevenif
it did, they said the book was too short for big sales. There's nothing a
publishersohatestohandleasabook--especiallyanovel--thatdoesn'tfitinto
theregulationmeasures.Insteadwasonlyforty-fivethousandwordslong,and
Mr. Dreck told Vance he didn't know a meaner length. He'd rather have an
elephant to handle like Ulysses or American Tragedy, than a mouthful like
that. When readers have paid their money they like to sit down to a square
meal. An oyster cocktail won't satisfy 'em. They want their money's worth;
andthat'satleastahundredthousand.Andifyoutrycharging'emless,they
say:"Hell,what'swrongwiththebookforittosellsocheap?Notanhour's
reading in it, most likely." So Dreck and Saltzer had halved the percentage
previously agreed on, on the plea that the book wasn't a novel anyhow--
nothingunderninetythousandis;andtherehadbeennoadvanceroyalties,and
therewouldbenopaymentatalltillJune.Ofcourse,theysaid,ifVancehad
pulledoffthePulsiferPrizeitwouldhavebeendifferent.Asitwas,therewas
nothinginitforthem,andtheytookthebookonlytoobligeTarrant.
Frenside listened attentively. When Vance had ended, he said: "From a
businesspointofviewIsupposetheywereright--beforethebookcameout.
Butnow?It'shadabigsale,orsotheysayintheiradvertisements;andthey
wouldn'tkeeponadvertisingitifithadn't.Can'tyouaskthemtomakeyouan
advance,evenifit'snotinthebond?"
Vance reddened as he said that he had asked and been turned down. The
publishersclaimedthattheywereadvertisingthebookatadeadloss,thatthe
saleshadn'tbeenmuchbiggerthantheyhadexpected;butthatthey"believed"
in Vance's future, and were ready to risk some money on it--a pure
speculation,theydeclared.Sotheyreallycouldn'tdomore.
Frenside gave a contemptuous wave of his pipe. "That's what the small
publisherscall'business,'andwhytheynevergettobebigones.Pityyou're
tied up to them. However--" He paused, and Vance felt that he was being
searchinglyscrutinizedfromunderthosejuttingbrows."Andyou'dbegladof
aloan,Igather?Haveyou--putthematterbeforeTarrant?"
"Oh,no--Icouldn't,"Vanceinterruptedinathickvoice.
Frenside nodded, as if that were not wholly a surprise. "See here, young
fellow,Ibelieveyou'vegotthestuffinyou,andI'dliketohelpyou.I'mnever
very flush myself; I daresay my appearance and my surroundings make that
fairlyobvious.Butifahundredwouldbeanygood--"
Hemadeamotiontopullhimselfupoutofhischair;butVanceraisedahand
tocheckhim.Ahundreddollars--anygood?God...hismouthwatered...
Butsomehowhe didn't want to take the money; didn't want their inspiriting
talktoendintheawkwardnessofpocketingacheque;didn't,aboveall,want
to overshadow the possibility of future talks by an obligation he might be
unable to meet. He must keep this spiritual sanctuary clear of the
moneylenders'booths.
"Thankyou,"hestammered."Butno,honest,Icouldn't...Imean,IguessI
canmakeout...."Hestoodup,andlookedFrensideintheeyes."WhenIget
thechancetotalktoyouI'dratheritwasaboutmywork.Nothingelsematters,
afterall...."
Frensiderosealso. "Well, I've got to pack you offnow and getintoharness
myself."Hepointedtothepapersonhisdesk."Butcomebackwhenyoucan,"
headded."Andwaitaminute--letmegiveyouacocktail...Idaresayyou
canoperatetheshakerbetterthanIcan....Here'stoyournext."
XXXIII
Vance walked away with a conquering step. Frenside had set his blood
circulating."Ibelieveyou'vegotthestuffinyou"--whenamanlikeFrenside
saidit,allthedepthscriedoutinanswer."Loot--Loot--Loot--abigAmerican
novel;that'swhatI'vegottodo,"Vancesang,almostshoutedtohimself,ashe
trudgedhomewardinthedusk.
HehadspokentheplaintruthwhenhetoldFrensidethatnothingmatteredbut
his work. When that possessed him it swept away all material miseries,
poverty, debt, the uncertainty of the future, the dull dissatisfactions of the
present. He felt that he could go without food, money, happiness--even
happiness--aslongasthemightwithindrovehimalongthecreativeway...
. "That's a man to talk to," he thought, tingling with the glow of Frenside's
rude sincerity. He was dead right, too, about a thing like Instead being a
sideshow, about the necessity of coming to grips with reality, with the life
abouthim.VancebrushedasidethevisionofhisEastIndiannovel--theresult
ofacasualglanceatacaptivatingbookcalledTheFrenchinIndia--
andsaidtohimself:"He'sright,again,whenhesaysIoughttogointosociety,
seemorepeople,study--what'sthewordheused?--manners.Ireadtoomuch,
anddon'tbrushupagainstenoughpeople.IfI'mgoingtowriteLootI'vegotto
getmystoreclothesoutofpawn."Helaughedattheidea..
..
His dream was cut short by the vision of Laura Lou waiting for him in the
dismalbedroomoftheplacewheretheyboarded.TheyhadbegunlifeinNew
York in a decent rooming house, recommended by Vance's old friend, the
manager of Friendship House. It was clean, hygienic, not too dear; in fact,
wouldhavesuitedthemexactlyif,ascoldweathercameon,LauraLou'scolds
had not so often prevented her going out for her meals. She tried preparing
theirfoodonanelectriccooker,butthedishessheproducedwereunpalatable
andindigestible,andthewomanwhokeptthehouseobjectedtothemessthat
resulted. So they had moved to their present quarters, far over on the West
Side, in a leprous brownstone survival of an earlier world. When Vance
enteredthegreasyhallasmellofcannedsoupandstalecoffeetoldhimthat
dinnerhadbegun."IdowishLauraLouwouldgodownwithoutwaitingfor
me,"hethoughtimpatiently;butshe
neverwould,andonthedayswhenhewaslate,andshehadtoeatherfood
cold,shealwaysendedupwithasickheadache.Hereflectedwithagrin,ashe
sprang up the stairs, that the people he was going to describe in Loot-- the
dress-clothespeople--wereatthathourstilldawdlingoverteaandcocktails,as
heandMrs.Pulsiferhaddone,inthatcircularpanelledroomwiththeflowers
andthedove-colouredarmchairs,towhichhehadneveragainbeenadmitted..
. . Dinner, in that world, was two or three hours off, down the vista of a
brilliantnight....
In the letter rack Vance found some letters, and pocketed them without a
glance.Heguessedatoncewhattheywere:offersfromeditorsandpublishers
temptedbythesuccessofInsteadandmakingproposalswhich,hardupashe
was,hewouldhavetorefuse.NeitherTarrantnorthepublishersTarranthad
imposedonhimwouldconsenttolethimoffhisbargain,ortoincreasebya
dollarthecontractsmadewithhim.Hecouldn'tseewhattherewas"init"for
them;hisindifferencetohisownwork,onceitwasfinishedandhehadturned
tosomethingelse,madehimunderratetheprestigethatInsteadhadconferred
on the New Hour, and he ascribed to editorial obstinacy Tarrant's natural
desire to make the best of his opportunity. For another two years every line
thatVancewrotewastariffedinadvanceandbelongedtotheNewHour,and
thentoDreckandSaltzer.Yetwritehemust,withoutapause,orheandLaura
Lou would starve. For himself he would have preferred starvation; but for
LauraLouhe mustatleastprovidesuchsustenanceas Mrs.Hubbard'stable
offered.Mrs.Hubbard,hislandlady(forobviousreasonscalled"Mother"by
herboarders),wasveryparticularaboutthecharacterandantecedentsofthe
guestsshereceived;thelatterunderstoodthatthesocialfastidiousnessentailed
byherbeingthewidowofasoutherncolonelmadeitimpossibleforhertobe
equallyparticularastothefoodsheprovided."IfIhavetooverlookablemish
I'dratheritwasinthemuttonthaninthemoràloftheladiesandgentlemenI
receiveinmyhome--inthelateColonelHubbard'shome,"saidMrs.Hubbard,
who was persuaded that "moràl," a word she often used, was French for
morals.Thelatecolonelhadbeenvice-consulinaFrenchcolonialport,and
Mrs.HubbardpridedherselfonherFrench.
Vance,springingupstairs,pushedopenthedooroftheroomintowhichheand
Laura Lou and their humble possessions (including the fetish dove) were
crowded. "Hullo," he flung ahead of him gaily. "Sorry I'm late; I've been
workingoutabignewideaforanovel."
Ashespokeherememberedhowoftenoflatehehadgiventhesamereason
forhisunpunctuality,andhowslightasparkofinterestitrousedinher.Did
shebelievehim,even?Verylikelynot.Shewasbecomingmore
andmoreresentfulofthehourshedevotedtoRebeccaStram;unless,indeed,
shesuspectedhimofusingthesculptressasascreen,andsecretlygivinghis
time to "that woman"--who to her was still, and perhaps always would be,
Halo Tarrant. For whatever cause, he saw at a glance that she nursed a
grievance,afactconfirmedbyhernotreplyingtohisremark.Itwasalwaysa
proofofresentmentinLauraLoutoignorewhathesaid,andmeeteachofhis
conversationalattemptsbyatotallyirrelevantreply.
"The dinner bell rang ever so long ago," she said, rising listlessly from her
rockingchair.
"Icouldsmellthatfactas soonas Iopenedthe frontdoor,"hereturned, his
eagerness driven back on itself by her indifference. "Just let me wash my
hands--"andhebegantothrowdownonthefloorapileoflinenstackedinthe
washbasin.
"Ohdon't,Vance--it'sthelaundry,justcomehome,"sheexclaimed,stooping
topickupthescatteredgarments."Andthisfloor'ssodirty--"
"Well, you've got a closet to keep things in," he retorted, exasperated, as he
alwayswas,byhergrowinginertia,herwayoflettingtheirclotheslieabout
and accumulate in the cramped untidy room, rather than take the trouble of
putting them where they belonged. But he was always ashamed of himself
whenhespoketoherimpatiently,andtoeffacehisretortheadded,whilehe
driedhishands:"Beenoutanythisafternoon,oldlady?"
"No."
"Why not? A little walk would have done you good." "I didn't feel like
walking."
Itwastheireternaldailydialogue.Whydidn'tsheeverfeellikewalking?In
theearlydayssheusedtospringupthehillsideswithhimlikeayoungdeer--
butnow,dayafterday,shejustsatinherchair,androckedandbrooded.He
suspectedherofthinking--notunnaturally--thatinacitytherewasnoobjectin
goingout unlessyou had moneyfor shoppingorthe movies.She hadnever
said so--she never complained of their lack of money; but she could not
understandwhatelsetherewastodoinaplacelikeNewYork.
"Thenyou'vestuckindoorsagainalldayandnotspokentoahumanbeing?I
hateyourbeing always alone like that," he said, dashing the brush irritably
throughhishair.
"I wasn't alone." She paused, and then brought out: "Not this afternoon, at
least.Ihadavisitor."
"Avisitor?Well,that'sgood."HesupposeditwasoneofMrs.Hubbard'sother
"guests,"thoughheknewthatLauraLoudidnotencouragetheirneighbourly
advances, partly through shyness, partly, he suspected, through some fierce
instinctofself-protection,thedesiretokeephimandtheirtwolivesabsolutely
toherself.
"Comealongdown....Whowasit?"hecontinuedabsently,passinghisarm
throughhers.
Shestoodstill."ItwasMrs.Tarrant."
Hestoppedshortalso,inastonishment."Mrs.Tarrant?Shecametoseeyou?"
"Yes."
"Wastheparlourempty?Couldyouseeherthere?"hequestioned,evokingin
aflashthestrangeunlikelyscene,andthepossibilityofMrs.Hubbard'sother
ladieswatchfullyclusteredabouttheunknownvisitor.
"Idon'tknow.IsentwordbythegirlIwassick--andthefirstthingIknewshe
cameuphere."
"Here--Mrs. Tarrant did?" Vance stood gazing about him, as if brutally
awakenedtothesightoftheroom,itsblisteredfadedpaperwithpatchesofa
different design, their scanty possessions untidily tossed about, the slovenly
intimaciesofbedandwashstandandnighttable.
"Well,whyshouldn'tshe?Ididn'taskherto."
"Ionlymeant,Ishouldhavethoughtyou'dratherhaveseenherdownstairs."
Laura Lou's lips narrowed. "I'd rather not have seen her at all." When she
spokeinthattone,betweenthoselevellips,thelikenesstohermother,which
hadalreadypeepedoutathimnowandagain,suddenlytookpossessionofher
wholeface.Vancelookedatherattentively.Itwasnodoubtbecauseshehad
grown thinner in the last months, and lost her colour, that the resemblance
affirmeditselfinthisstartlingway.Vancerememberedwhathisgrandmother
hadsaidaboutMrs.Tracy'sprettinessandherpinksilkflounces,when,onher
bridaltour,shehadvisitedher
westernrelativesatAdvance.Hewaschilledbythesenseoflifeperpetually
slippingby,andleavingitsstealthydisfigurementonspiritandflesh....What
wastheuseofanything,withthisdecrepitudeatthecore?
"Ididn'taskhertocomeup,"LauraLourepeatedquerulously."Oh,well,no
matter....Whatdidshecomefor?"
'Toaskustoaparty.""Aparty--?"
"Shewantstogiveyouaparty.Shesayslotsofpeoplearecrazytoseeyou.
She said I oughtn't to keep you so shut up. . . . She asked me to pick an
evening. . . ." There was a curious ring of gratified pride under the affected
indifferenceofLauraLou'svoice.
"Well,didyou?"Vanceaskedironically.
"Isaidshe'dbetterseeyou.IsaidIdidn'tcareaboutparties,butI'dneverkept
youfromgoing."Shepaused,andaddedrigidly:"Itoldhertherewasnouse
comingheretoseeyoubecauseyouwerealwaysout."
Vancereceivedthisinsilence.Whatwastheretosay?Mrs.Tarranthadcome
toinvitethemtoaparty--haddeliveredher invitationin that room! Did she
reallythinkpartieswereapanaceaforsuchaplightastheirs?Orhadshebeen
movedbyanotherimpulsewhichhadbeencheckedonherlipsbyLauraLou's
manifest hostility? The dreary ironic light of failure lay on everything, as it
hadonthatfar-offdayatEuphoriawhenVance,recoveringfromhisfever,had
poured out his bitterness in his first tale. Perhaps life would never again be
bearabletohimexceptasmaterialforhisart.Initselfitseemedpersistently
uglyanduncontrollable,ahorroronecouldneitherescapefromnormaster--as
ifoneshouldbeforeverbattlinginthedarkwithagrimacingidiot.
"Seehere--there'llbenothinglefttoeatifwedon'tgodown,"heremindedhis
wife.
"Idon'twantanything.I'mnothungry.Besides,it'stoolate...you'realways
toolate...."
Atthathesnatcheduphishatandcoatinsuddenanger.Thelikenessto
Mrs.Tracywasnotinhiswife'sfacealone."Oh,allright.Justasyoulike.
I'mhungry,ifyou'renot.Ifdinner'soverI'llgooutandgetabitesomewhere."
"Youbetter,"sherejoined,inthesamelifelesstone;andwithoutlookingback
atherheflungthedoorshutandrandownstairsandoutofthehouse.
In the first chophouse that he passed he found a table, ordered sausage and
potatoes, with a cup of coffee, and devoured them ravenously. He was still
youngenoughforangerandgrieftomakehimhungry....Therewasnoone
heknewin theplace,andafterhe hadsatisfiedhis hungerhepulledouthis
lettersand glanced over them.Ashe had expected, theywereall on literary
business.Oneimportantpublisher,whowantedhisnext novel,asked himto
call and see if, in the course of a talk, they could not devise some plan of
adjustmentwithDreckandSaltzer.ThoughVancehadnohopeofthishewas
encouragedbythe urgencyoftherequest.Howeasyitwouldhave been,he
thought,toworkhiswaythroughhistworemainingyearsofbondageifonly
LauraLouhadnotweigheddowneveryendeavour--ifonlyhehadbeenfree
andalone!Buttherewasnouseingoingthroughthatwearyroundagain.He
hadhadthechanceoffreeinghimselfandhadrefusedit.Howcouldafellow
tell beforehand where each act would lead, and what would be the next to
growoutofit?Perhapstheywereright,thosechapsatRebeccaStram's,who
saiditwasallablindlabyrinth,adisconnectedmuddle....
Thedespairofyouthovercamehim.Hefeltasuddenlossoffaithinhimself,
inhispowers,intheintrinsicinterestofthings,inhiscapacitytodragthrough
thesenexttwoyearsofpoverty,drudgery,andmentalhunger.
Heaskedthewaitressifhecouldtelephone.Shesaidyes,andledhimtothe
backoftheroom.Helookedupanumberandrang....Suddenlyheheardan
answering voice, and repeated the number. "Yes," the voice said. He
stammered:"IwanttospeaktoMrs.Tarrant,"andthesamevoice,withanote
ofreproach,cameback:"Why,Vance,don'tyouknowme?Yes...I'mhere..
..Yes,come...comeatonce...do."Hehungup,andturnedbackdizzilyto
thedoor.Shewasthere,shewassoclosethatheseemedtofeelherlighttouch
onhisshoulder....Andshehadbeenthere,soneartohim,allthesemonths,
andhehadneveroncetriedtoseeher.Itseemedincredible,preposterous,the
very core and centre of his folly. Why had he gone on starving when the
banquetwasspreadandwithinhisreach?
At the door of the Tarrants' apartment house his morbid sensitiveness to the
visibleworldanditsimplicationsproducedinhimanabruptchangeofview.It
was long since he had entered one of those quiet commodious buildings,
whereeverythingbespokeconditionssodifferentfromthose
which imprisoned him. He recalled with compunction his outburst against
LauraLou. Nowondershe had resentedMrs. Tarrant's visit--nowonderany
advancefrompeoplelivingineaseandamenityseemedtothepoorchildlike
adeliberatecondescension.PoorLauraLou!Ifhecouldhavegivenheralittle
cottage in a pleasant suburb, something of her own to be proud of and fuss
over,itmighthavealteredeverything...Ashesteppedintothepanelledlift
andswunguptothetopstoryhefeltagnawingangeragainsttheunfairnessof
life,thecrueltyofsocialconditions.Henolongerrememberedthatwhenhe
hadcalledupMrs.Tarrantthethoughtofherhadbeenameansofescapefrom
hismisery,thathehadyieldedtotheurgentneedoftalkingoverhisnewbook
with her, and plunging once more into the healing springs of her sympathy.
Nowthathewasonherthresholdhefeltonlytheblinddesiretopunishher--
punish her for her tactless intrusion on his wife, for living as she lived, for
beingwhatshewas,fornotleavinghimandLauraLoualonetoliveandtobe
astheyweredoomedto,withorwithoutherinterference....
Thedooropenedonthesoftlylitanteroom.Amaidtookhishatandcoat,and
said:"Thisway;"andthereshesat,bythefireinthelibrary,alone.Shewore
somethingdarkandlacy,throughwhichherupperarmsshowed;andthesober
book-linedroom,withitsshadedlamps,andafewlilylikecrimsonflowersin
a tall jar, seemed a part of her, the necessary background to her aloof and
reticentgrace.VancerecalledtheroominwhichhehadleftLauraLou,andat
the same moment, joined to that evocation, came the vision of this woman
turningfromhim,withacarelesspleasantry,inthatotherroomattheWillows
where he had cast his soul at her feet. . . . No, there could be no common
meetinggroundforhimandHaloTarrant;theconditionsoflifedividedthem
toosharply.Materialwell-being,securityfromhungeranddebt,madepeople
callousandunfeeling,perhapswithoutanyfaultoftheirown.Buthehadbeen
right in deciding not to see her again, and wrong in yielding to the impulse
whichhadledhimtohertonight.
"Vance--howgladIam!"shesaid,risingandholdingouthertwohandsinthe
oldfriendlyway.
He stood near the door, bound hand and foot in coils of awkwardness and
resentment. "You went to see my wife today," he began, and stopped, not
knowinghowtogoon.
Mrs.Tarrantraised her eyebrows slightly. "Yes.It was so longsinceI'd had
any news of either of you. I thought she was not looking well the day she
lunchedhere...andIwantedtoseeiftherewasanythingIcoulddo...."
"No.There'snothingyoucando."
He felt the surprise and pain in her eyes without daring to meet them. "I'm
sorry,"sherejoinedsimply."ButI'mgladyou'vecomethisevening.Sitdown,
won'tyou,Vance?I'mallalone--Lewisisataman'sdinner,andIthoughtI'd
snatchaquieteveningwithmybooks."
Vance still hung in the middle of the wide space between the door and the
fireplace. "I guess I won't interrupt you then," he said, still at a loss for his
nextphrase.
"Interruptme?Howcanyousaythat?YouknowI'vewantedatalkwithyou
foralongtime."
"No,Ididn'tknow...Imean..."Hebrokeoffsuddenly."Mywifewasn't
wellwhenyoucalled.Yououghtn'ttohavegoneupintoherroomwithouther
askingyou,"heblurtedout.
"Vance!"
"Can'tyouseehowpeoplefeel,"hecontinuedpassionately,"whensomebody
likeyou,comingoutofthis--"hetookintheroomwithagestureofreproach,
"whenyoucomeintothekindofplacewehavetolivein,andtrytopretend
thattherecaneverbeanythingincommonbetweenourlivesandyours?"
Mrs.Tarrant,restingonehandonthebackofherchair,stillgazedathimin
perplexity."Vance--Idon'tunderstand.DidLauraLouobjecttomyvisit?"
"ShefeltaboutitthewayIdo.Weknowyoumeantobekind.Butit'snouse.
We don't belong to your kind of people--never will. And it just complicates
thingsformeifyou..."Hecheckedhimself,consciousthathewasbetraying
whathehadmeanttoconceal.
"Isee,"shemurmuredinalowvoice.Therewasanintervalofsilence;then
she said: "I'm sorry to have done anything stupid. You know I'm impulsive,
and not used to standing on ceremony. I went to see Laura Lou because I
wantedtohavenewsofyouboth,andbecauseIparticularlywantyoutocome
heresomeeveningtomeetafewpeoplewhoreallycareforyourbook,and
wouldtalktoyouintelligentlyaboutit.Yououghttoseemorepeopleofthat
sort--givethemachancetoknowyouandtalkwithyou.Itwouldstimulate
you,I'msure,andbegoodforyourwork."
Vancefelthiscolourrising.Itwasdifficulttoreplyinaspiritofanimosityto
wordssosimpleandkindly.Butthesuggestionoftheeveningpartyrecalled
LauraLou'sresentment.
"Thankyou--butthat'snouseeither.Eveningparties,Imean.They'renotfor
peoplelikeus...."
Shedidnotanswerimmediately;thenshesaid:"Won'tyousitdown,Vance?I
hopedyou'dcomeforalongtalk...."
Hereplied,withoutnoticingherrequest:"Icametosaywe'remuchobligedto
youforthinkingofus,butit'snouseyourbothering--reallynouse."
Shemovednearerandlaidherhandonhis."Vance--what'swrong?Whathas
happened? How can you speak to a friend of 'bothering' about you? If you
don'twanttomeetpeople,Iwon'tinvitethem;butthatseemsnoreasonwhy
you and I shouldn't talk together sometimes in the old way. Perhaps you
haven'tmissedourtalksasmuchasIhave--perhapstheydidn'tcountasmuch
inyourlifeastheydidinmine...."
Shepaused,andsuddenlyheflunguphishandsandhidhisfaceinthem."Not
count--notcountinmylife?"
Hefeltherfingersgentlyslippedthroughhis,drawinghishandsdownsothat
hisfacewasuncoveredtoherscrutinyandhiseyeswereforcedtolookinto
hers."Notcount...notcount?"Hestaredatherthroughabluroftears.
"Theydid,Vance?I'msoglad.Thenwhytrytodenyit?Whyshouldn'twejust
go back to where we were before? I'm sure you've got lots to tell me about
yournewplans...."
Hesnatchedhishandsawayandhidhisfaceagain,strugglingtochokeback
hissobs.Whatwouldshethink--whatwouldshesuppose?Butitwasnouse
fightingagainstthesurgeofjoyandagonythatcaughthimandshookhimlike
ayoungtreeinaspringgale.Hestammeredout:"I'mafool....Youmustn't
mindme....I'vebeenthroughhelllately....Justletmesitherealittlewhile
withouttalking,tillIgetusedtoyouagain...."andwithoutawordshewent
backtoherchairandsattheresilently,theshadedlamplightonherquiethead.
XXXIV
ItwaslongpastmidnightwhenhecautiouslypushedopenhisdooronMrs.
Hubbard's third story. The light from a street lamp, shining through the
shutterlesswindow,showedhimLauraLouinbed,asleeporpretendingtobe;
andheundressedasnoiselesslyashecouldandlaydownbesideher.Hewas
usedtoherwaysnow:heknewshewouldnotbeginquestioninghimtillthe
nextmorning,andhelaythere,hisarmscrossedunderhishead,staringupat
the cracked and blotched ceiling, and reliving with feverish vividness the
hours he had spent with Halo Tarrant. He did not mean to tell Laura Lou
wherehehadbeen;todosowouldonlygrieveher.Besides,shewouldnever
believehimwhenhetoldherthatallthosehourshadbeenspentintalk:the
absorbing, illuminating, inexhaustible exchange of confidences and ideas.
LauraLoucouldnotimaginewhatanybodycouldhavetosaythatwouldtake
that length of time. . . . And Vance himself could hardly believe that this
woman, without whom life was so lame and incomplete a business, this
womanwhomhehadsomissedandlongedfor,andthoughthehated,could
havecalmedhisvehemence,castaspelloverhisthrobbingsenses,andkept
him with her, enriched and satisfied, by the mere magic of her attentive
understanding....
He had told her everything--tumbled out all his distresses and anxieties, the
miseryofhismarriage,thematerialcaresthatmadehisworksodifficult,his
secretresentmentofwhathadappearedtohimherhardnessandindifference
when they had parted at the Willows. Nothing had been farther from his
intention than to speak to her in this way: he had sought her out as the one
confidanteofhisliteraryprojects,hadimaginedthatprideandloyaltyforbade
anypersonalconfession.Butoncehisreservehadbrokendownthererushed
through the breach all the accumulated distress of the long months since he
had seen her. The exquisite solace of confessing everything effaced all
scruplesandreserves. Hewasaspowerlessaseverto concealhissoulfrom
her . . . and with every word he felt her understanding reaching out to him,
soothing the way for what he had to tell. Instead of the resistance against
which he was always instinctively arming himself, which made him
involuntarilydeformeveryphrasetofitittoamindsodifferentfromhisown
thattherewasnotonepointwheretheydovetailed,oreventouched--instead
of that he felt the relief of knowing that his clumsiest word, his lamest
statement, would be smoothed out, set upright, and drawn in across the
thresholdofaperpetuallywelcomingmind....
Andthen,whenhebegantotalkabouthiswork("theonlythingworthwhile,"
hepassionatelyrepeated)--ah,thenitseemedasiftheywereinthelibraryof
the Willows again, in the green summer twilight, while he read and she
listened, taking in his meaning with every line of lids and lips, and the
quietnessofthatheadsupportedstatuelikeonhersmoothbarearm.
...Itwascurious,though,howsomesubstitutionofvaluesofwhichsheheld
thesecretcausedthisspiritualcommuniontobringthemnearerthan
theembraceshehadhungeredforattheWillows.Orperhapshisrecoilfrom
theideaofcombiningphysicalendearmentswithsuchacommunionwasdue
to Laura Lou's persistent suspicion. He would have to dissociate sensual
passionfromallthathaddebasedandcheapeneditbeforeitcouldblendwith
hisvisionofthiswomanwhohadunderstoodandpitiedhim...
.Nextmorning,whenthequestioningbegan,Vancetoldhiswifethathe
hadstoppedinatthe"Loafers',"andstayedlatetalkingabouthisbookwitha
lot of fellows. "And that Stram woman, I suppose?" she suggested; and he
retorted, plunging his angry face into the basin: "Oh, yes, and half the
vaudeville stage of New York." Laura Lou was brushing her hair before the
looking glass. He caught the reflection of the small pale oval, the reddened
lids,theripelipscrumpledupwithdistress,andturningtoherhepassedhis
wet hand through her hair, tumbling it forward over her eyes. "You little
goose,you. . ." She caught his hand and flung herselfagainsthim."I don't
careasinglescrap,darling,aslongasyoudidn'tgoandseeMrs.Tarrant,"she
whispered,herlipsonhis."Oh,hell,"helaughed,jerkingawayfromherto
finishhisdressing....
HehadgivenMrs.TarrantaroughoutlineofLoot,andhadbeentroubled,for
amoment,byherhesitation,herreluctancetoexpressanopinion.Shethought
thesubjecttoobigforhim--wasthatit?No,nottoobig...shehadconfidence
in his range . . . and she agreed with Frenside that he must above all not
attempt another Instead. That had been a radiant accident; it would be
disastroustotrytorepeatit.Whenhemurmured:"Pondicherry,"andspokeof
the vision the word evoked, she shook her head, and said: "The publishers
wouldjumpatit;buttakecare!"No,Frensidewasright;hemusttryhishand
nowatreality,therealitythatlayabouthim.For thenovelist,fantasywasa
sterilebloom,afterall.Only(shewondered)washesufficientlyfamiliarwith
thekindoflifehewasgoingtodescribe?VancelaughedandsaidthatFrenside
had put the same question. He ought to go out more, Frenside said, rub up
againstNewYorkinitsvariousphases,especiallythesocialones--oh,noneof
yourdamneddocumentation,that
corpse-dissecting, as Frenside called it--Vance must just let himself live, go
about among people, let the place and the people work themselves into his
pores....Excellentadvice,butnotsoeasy,whenafellow...
Here she interrupted him, leaning forward with her drawn-up scrutinizing
gaze. "Vance, what is it? What's wrong? Why do you persist in burying
yourselfinsteadoftakingadvantageofyoursuccess?"
"Well,Iguessit'sbecauseI'mnotusedtosociety,foronething...."
"Don't think of it as 'society,' but just as a few friendly people who admire
yourworkandwanttoknowyou....Comehereandseethem,"sheurged;
andwhenheconfessedthathehadnoeveningclothesshelaughed,andasked
if he supposed she meant to invite him to formal entertainments, and if he
didn't know that Frenside never could be coaxed out on tailcoat occasions?
Later,sheadded,whenVancehadgotmoreusedtoitall,hemustgotosome
ofthebigshowstoo--theopera,musicalparties,millionairedinners,thewhole
stupid round--just to see how "the other half lived"; but meanwhile all she
suggestedwasthatheshouldnotcuthimselfofffromthesmallgroupofthe
cultivated and intelligent, who might stimulate him andenlarge his point of
view--not,atleast,sheadded,ifhemeanttogoonwritingnovels....
Ofcourseheagreedwithher;ofcoursehesaidhewouldcomeonwhatever
evening she named. The mere sound of her voice made the creative ardour
beat in him, and when she asked him if he couldn't soon bring her his first
chapter he answered joyfully that she should have it before the end of the
week....
AfterbreakfasthehurriedofftoLambart&Co.,thepublisherswhoseletterhe
hadreceivedthepreviousday.IntheinnerofficewherethegreatMr.Lambart
himself awaited him he heard fresh praises of Instead, and the hope that he
wasalreadystarting"onanotherjustlikeit;it'swhatyourpublicwantsofyou,
Mr.Weston";andfinallythecrucialquestion:"Willyouleaveittoustoseeif
wecancometoanunderstandingwithDreckandSaltzer?Betweenourselves
(andquiteconfidentially,ofcourse)theirfinancialsituationisn'tsoundenough
to let them give their authors a chance. They can't advertise properly, they
can't--"Oh,yes,Vanceinterrupted;heknewallthat.Thetroublewasthathis
contractwiththemwastiedupwithhisNewHourcontract...andhedidn't
see...
Thepublishersmiledthefaintsecretsmileofinitiation.Thatwasjustit:the
NewHour wasn't inanytoo healthy a stateeither. There tootheremight be
somethingtobedone:negotiations...IfMr.Westonwouldsimplyauthorize
himtoact...
Vance hardly heard the suggestion. The statement with regard to the New
Hour,comingtohimwithashockofsurprise,suddenlyrecalledthelookon
Mrs. Tarrant's face when, the night before, he had blurted out that he was
imprisonedbyhiscontractwithherhusband.Shehadnotanswered;hadnot
spoken at all: but her eager eyes and lips seemed drawn back, immobilized,
and for the only time in their talk he felt between them an impenetrable
barrier....Itwasthat,then!Sheknewthereviewwasinabadway,butpride,
or perhaps loyalty to her husband, forbade her to admit it. She had merely
said,afteramoment:"Thetwoyearsthatareleftwillsoonbeover;thenyou'll
befree..."withasmilewhichseemedhalfironicandhalfsympathizing.And
theyhadpassedontoothermatters.
Yes, Vance said, rousing himself to answer Mr. Lambart, yes, of course he
wouldauthorizeanyattempttobuyhimoff...only,headded,Tarrantwasa
queer-temperedfellow...youneverknew...Thepublisher'ssmileflicked
Tarrantawaylikeastraw."Giftedamateur...Theycan'teditreviews..."He
promisedtoletVanceknowtheresultassoonaspossible."Andnowaboutthe
nextnovel,"hesaid,aringofpossessorshipinhisvoice.Thetermsproposed
(athirdinadvance,ifMr.Westonchose)madeVance'sblooddruminhisears;
buttherewasachangeoftonewhenhebegantooutlineLoot.Abignovelof
modern New York? What--another? Tempting subject, yes--tremendous
canvas--but there'd been so many of them! The public was fed up with
skyscrapers and niggers and bootleggers and actresses. Fed up equally with
Harlemandwiththeopera,withGreenwichVillageandtheplutocrats.What
theywantedwassomethingrefined--somethingtoappealtotheheart.Couldn't
Mr. Weston see that by the way his own book had been received? Why not
followupthesuccessofInsteadbyanothernoveljustlikeit?Thequaintness
ofthestory--sotospeak--hadtakeneverybody'sfancy.WhynotleavetheNew
YorkshowtofellowslikeFynes,andthenewmanGratzBlemer,whocouldn't
eitherofthemdoanythingelse,didn'tevensuspecttherewasanythingelseto
do?ThisGratzBlemer:takingthreehundredthousandwordstotellthestory
ofa streetwalker and abootblack,and then calling itThisGlobe! Why,you
couldgetroundtherealglobenowadaysagooddealquickerthanyoucould
dig your way through that book! No, no, the publisher said--if Mr. Weston
wouldjustlistentohim,andrelyonhislongexperience...Well,wouldhe
think it over, anyhow? A book just like Instead, only about forty thousand
wordslonger.IfInsteadhadablemish,itwasbeingwhatthedry-
goodsstorescalledan"outsize";thepublicdidliketogetwhattheywereused
to....Andifanovelisthadhadthelucktohitonsomethingnewthatthey
tookashineto,itwassheersuicidenottogivethemmoreofit....
ItwasanoddsensationforVance,aftersomanymonthsofseclusion,tofind
himselfagainintheharmonioussettingoftheTarrants'library,withfriendly
faces pressing about him and adulation filling the air like a shower of
perfumedpetals....TherewerefewerpeoplethanathisformerpartyatMrs.
Tarrant's;therewasnoMrs.Pulsifer,therewerenoladiesingoldbrocadeto
startleandcaptivate.Themenweremostlyindayclothes,thefewwomenin
simple half-transparent dresses such as Mrs. Tarrant had worn that other
eveningwhenhehadcalledherupandfoundheraloneoverthefire.Those
womendressedlikethatwhentheyweresittingathomealoneintheevening!
ThefactimpressedVancemorethanallMrs.Pulsifer'sbrocadesandjewels--
made the distance seem greater between the world of Mrs. Hubbard's third
storyandthatinwhichasortofquietbeautyandorderwereanacceptedpart
oflife.
Vance had tried to induce Laura Lou to come with him, but had not been
altogethersorrywhenhefailed.Hehadnotforgottentheirdisastrouslunchat
theTarrants',andhetoldhimselfthathehatedtoseehiswifeatadisadvantage
amongpeoplewhoseemedblindtoherbeauty,andconsciousonlyofherlack
ofsmalltalk.Butinfactitwasonlyinherabsencethathewasreallyhimself.
Every situation in which she figured instantly became full of pitfalls. The
Vance Weston who was her husband was a nervous, self-conscious, and
sometimesdefiantyoungman,whereastheother,therealone,wasdisposedto
takethingseasily,tomeetpeoplehalfway,andtoforgethimselfcompletelyin
the pursuit of any subject that interested him. And here at the Tarrants', as
always,theairwasfullofsuchsubjects,andofa cordialitywhichinstantly
brokedownhislingeringresentments.HefeltthiseveninTarrant'shandshake
onthethreshold.Tarrant,attheoffice,wasanenigmatoVance.Whathehad
heard of the difficulties of the New Hour had prepared him to find them
reflected in his host's manner; but apparently among these people business
concernswereleftbehindafterbusinesshours,andTarranthadneverbeenso
friendlyandfraternal.HedetainedVanceforafewmomentsintalkaboutthe
new book ("my wife tells me it's really on the stocks"), and then effaced
himself,declaring:"Butit'stheauthorofInsteadthatpeoplewanttosee;come
alongtomywife,andshe'llintroduceyou."
Halo, at the farther end of the library, was talking to a short, heavily built
youngmanwithaheadcroppedlikeaGermanBursche,whomsheintroduced
as Gratz Blemer. Blemer was blunt but affable. "I guess we can't read each
other--anyway,you'llneverflounderthroughamorasslikemylastbook--but
I'mgladofthechanceofatalk.Writing'salwaysamannerism;talk'stheonly
real thing, isn't it?" He spoke with a slight German accent, oiled by Jewish
gutturals, and Vance, while attracted by his good-nature and simplicity,
wondered for the thousandth time why American novels were so seldom
written by Americans. He would have liked to go off into a corner with
Blemer and put a series of questions about his theory of his art; but other
peoplecameup.TherewaslittleO'Fallery,whoseshortstory,"LimpCollars,"
hadtakenthePulsiferPrizeonwhichTarranthadcountedforVance;Frenside,
gruffly benevolent, Rebecca Stram (who was exhibiting Vance's bust in the
clay at a show of "Tomorrowists" got up by that enterprising industry,
"Storecraft"),andothers,menandwomen,unknowntoVance,orknownonly
by reputation, but all sounding the same note of admiring interest and
intelligentcomprehension....
Comprehension?Atthemomentitseemedso;yetasthehourspassed,andthe
opportunitycameforoneafteranothertocapturethenewnovelist,andstarta
literaryconversationofwhichhewashimselftheglowingcentre,Vancefelt,
againandagain,howrandompraisecanisolateanddiscourage.Allthatmade
hisworkworthwhile,allthatmadetheforceofhisvocation,wasapparently
invisible or incomprehensible to others. He longed to learn more about this
mysterious craft, the instruments of which some passing divinity had
carelesslydroppedintohishands,leavinghimtopuzzleouttheiruse;butthe
intelligent and admiring people to whom he strove to communicate his
curiositiesseemedunabletofollowhim."Oh,you'retoomodest,"onecordial
criticassured him;and another:"I supposewhenyoustartastoryyoudon't
alwaysknowyourselfhowit'sgoingtoend...."Notknowhowit'sgoingto
end! Then these people had never heard that footfall of Destiny which, for
Vance, seemed to ring out in the first page of all the great novels, as
compellingastheknockofMacbeth'sgates,assecretastheopeningmeasures
oftheFifthSymphony?GratzBlemer,even,whomhemanagedtocornerlater
in the evening, and whose book gave him so great a sense of easy power--
GratzBlemer,good-naturedandevidentlyreadytobecommunicative,twisted
acigarbetweenhisthicklips,staredattheceiling,andreturnedfromittosay:
"Novel-writing? Why, I don't know. You have a story you want to tell, and
insteadofbuttonholingafellowandpouringitout--whichistheonlynatural
way--youshutyourselfupandreelitoffonaRemington,andsendittothe
publisher,sothatmorefellowscan
hearit.That'stheonlydifference,Iguess--thatandthecashreturns,"headded
withawell-fedchuckle.
"Yes,but--"Vancegasped,disheartened."Well,what?"
"I mean, how does the thing germinate, spread itself above and below the
surface? There's something so treelike, so preordained. . . . I came across
somethinginBlaketheotherdaythatmademethinkofit:'Manisbornlikea
gardenreadyplantedandsown.Thisworldistoopoortoproduceoneseed.'
Thatjusthintsatthemystery...butIcan'tmakeitallout--canyou?"
Blemergavehisjoviallaugh."Nevertriedto,"hesaid,reachingwithaplump
hairy hand for a passing cocktail. And after a moment he added good-
naturedly:"Seehere,youngman,don'tyougoandreadtheProphetsandget
self-conscious about your work, or you'll take to writing fifty pages about a
crackintheceiling--andthentheCocoanutTree'llgrovelbeforeyou,butyour
sales'llgodownwitharush."No,evidentlyBlemerdidnotknowhoworwhy
hewrotehisnovels,andcouldnotevenconceivetheexistenceoftheproblems
which were Vance's passion and despair. . . . The footfall of Destiny would
neverkeephimfromhissleep...andyethehadwrittenagoodbook.
But if Vance was disappointed by his talks with the literary lights, he was
stimulatedbytheatmosphereattheTarrants',bytheflatteringnoticeofthese
enviable people who spoke freely and familiarly of so many things he was
achingtoknowabout,whotookforgrantedthatyouhadseenthelastplayat
theYiddishTheatre,hadheardthenewStravinskysymphony,hadvisitedthe
Tcheko-Slovakianpainters'show,andwereeagertodiscusstheTomorrowists'
comingexhibition,atwhichtheyallknewthatVance'sbustbyRebeccaStram
wastobeshown.
The air was electrical, if not with ideas at least with phrases and allusions
which led up to them. To Vance the background of education and travel
impliedbythisquickflashingbackandforthofnames,anecdotes,references
to unseen places, unheard-of people, works of art, books, plays, was
intoxicatinginitsmanifoldsuggestions.Evenmoreso,perhaps,wasthesense
oftheunhamperedlivesofthepeoplewhoseemedsoeasilyabletosatisfyall
theircuriosities--peoplewhotookasamatterofcourseeventhenoblerange
of books in the Tarrant library, the deep easy chairs, the skilfully disposed
lamps and flowers, and the music which, toward the end of the evening, a
dreaminghanddrewfromtheSteinwayinitsshadowy
corner. As in every one of his brief contacts with this world, Vance felt a
million currents of beauty and vitality pouring through him. If the life of a
greatcityhadsuchplasticandpictorialqualities,whynotseizeonthem?Why
notmakethemostofhispopularitywiththesepeoplewhohadsomanyways
offeedinghisimagination?Beforethepartybrokeuphehadacceptedadozen
invitationstodine,tosup,tohearnewmusicorlookatoldpictures.Whata
worlditwasgoingtobetodigintoandthenwriteabout!
XXXV
"Storecraft" had lodged itself on the summit of a corner building in Fifth
Avenue, with a "roof patio" (the newest architectural hybrid) surrounded by
showrooms and a cabaret. This fresh stage in its development was to be
inauguratedbythe TomorrowistShow,and whenVance andLauraLoushot
up to the patio in the crowded lift the rooms were already beginning to fill
with the people whose only interest in exhibitions is to visit them on their
openingday.
LauraLou,at thelastmoment,haddecidedtoaccompanyherhusband.The
daywasradiant,andtreacherouslywarmforMarch,andshehadputonalittle
blue hat, of the same blue as the one she had worn that fatal day in the
rubberneckcar,andacoatwithacollaroffluffyamberfur.Betweencerulean
hat brim and blond fur her face looked as tender as a wild rose, and the
shadow of fatigue under her eyes turned them to burning sapphire. Vance
looked at her in wonder. What did she do with all this loveliness in their
everydaylife?Itseemedtoappearsuddenly,onparticularoccasions,asifshe
had pulled it out of the trunk under their bed with her "good" coat; and he
knewitwouldvanishagainasquickly,leavingherthepaleheavy-eyedghost
ofheroldself.Someinnerstimulus,nowalmostlackinginherlife,seemed
required to feed that precarious beauty. He noticed how people turned their
headsassheenteredthegallery,astheyhaddoneinthefashionablerestaurant,
andatthetheatre,ontheirweddingjourney.Masculineprideflushedthrough
him,andheslippedhisarmpossessivelyinhers."Takemerighttowhereit
is,"sheenjoinedhimwithalittleairofpower,asifinstantlyconsciousofhis
feeling.
They worked their way into the second room, and there, aloft on a central
pedestal,Vance caught a halfglimpseof himself as embodiedinthe clay of
RebeccaStram.Theconspicuousplacingofthebustastonishedhim--hehadn't
supposedthatRebecca'sartisticstanding,eveninherownlittlegroup,wasof
suchimportance.
"Gee--forabeginnerthey'vegivenheragoodplace,"hesaidtohiswife."Oh,
Vanny,itisn'ther--it'syou!"
Helaughed alittlesheepishly, in genuinesurprise. Hehadforgottenthatfor
anyonebuthimselfandLauraLouhisfeaturescouldbeofinterest.
"Shucks,"hegrowledself-consciously.
"Why,justlook!Wecan'tgetuptoit--Ican'tseeit,even!"sheexulted.
Thebustwasinfactenclosedinadensecircleofpeople,somefewofwhom
werelookingatit,whilethegreaternumberhungonthevibrantaccentsofa
showilydressedmanwhoserobustbackwasturnedtoVanceandLauraLou.
"Know him? Know Vance Weston?" they heard Bunty Hayes ring out in
megaphone tones. "Why, I should say so. Ever since he was a little kiddie.
Why,himandmewereraisedtogether,waydownontheHudsonRiver,asthe
oldsongsays.BornoutWest?"(Thisisevidentresponsetothecommentof
oneofhisauditors.)"That'sso--Illinois,Iguessitwas,ormaybeArizona.But
he came east as a little fellow, to live with his mother's relatives--don't I
rememberthedayhearrived?Why,Imethimwhenhesteppedoffthetrain.
Eventhenyoucouldseethelittlegeniusinhim.
'Bunty,' he says to me, 'where's the public library?" (First thing!). I want to
consult the Encyclopaedia Britannica,' he says. Couldn't ha' been more'n
sixteen,Iguess--thinkingofhiswritingeventhen!Well,Iwasonanewspaper
inthosedaysmyself,andIwalkedhimrightroundtotheoffice,andIsaid:
"Whatyouwant tostudyisn'tencyclopaedias,it'sLife.'AndI guess,ifIdo
sayso,thatwastheturningpointinhiscareer;andIclaimit
wasmyadviceandhelpthatlandedhimwhereheistoday:attheheadofthe
world'sfictionwriters,andintheplaceofhonourat'Storecraft's'first
artexhibit.Proudofit?Well,IguessI'vegotarighttobe...."
He swung suddenly round, mustering the crowd with an eye trained to the
estimationofnumbers;andhisglancemetVance's.Thelatterexpectedtosee
signsofdiscomfitureontheorator'scompactcountenance;buthedid
not yet know Bunty Hayes. The showman's eye instantly lit up, and he
elbowedhiswaytowardVancewithextendedhand.
"Well,ladiesandgentlemen,Iseeit'stimeformetopackupmygoodsand
step down off the platform. Here's the great man himself. Now, then, Mr.
Weston,stepuphereandgiveyouradmirersthechancetocomparetheliving
featureswiththeartist'sinspiration!"
Vancestoodparalysedwithrage;buthehadnotimetoexpressit,forfriends
andacquaintanceswerepressingabouthim,andBuntyHayeswassweptaside
bytheirapproach.Vancefoundhimselfthecentreofathrongof people, all
eager to say a word, all determined to have one in return; and his only
consciousdesirewastoberidofitall,andofthem,andlethisrageagainst
Hayestakebreath.Hemanagedtomumblehiswife'snametothefirstcomers,
butpresentlyherhandslippedfromhisarm,andhesawherdrawnawaybya
tall sable-draped figure whose back he recognized as Mrs. Pulsifer's. Mrs.
PulsiferandLauraLou--hewishedtherehadbeentimetobefuriousatthat
too! But perhaps it was better to laugh at it--to laugh even at Bunty Hayes,
whose showman's instinct so confidently triumphed over every personal
awkwardness."Why,"Vancethought,"ifIwastocollarhimnowandgivehim
thelickinghedeserves, he'd use that to advertise 'Storecraft.' No wonder he
getson,and'Storecraft'too."Andinstantlyhebegantoweavethewholescene
into Loot, his heart beating excitedly as he felt himself swept along on the
strongcurrentofthehumancomedy....IfonlyhecouldtellHaloTarrant,he
thought!Heturned,andthereshestoodbesidehim,withFrenside.
"Yes,we'vecome.Ihatetheseperformances;butIwantedtoseeyoubattling
withthewaves,andImadeFrennycometoo."Howfineandslenderandaloof
shemanagedtolookamongthemall,andhowhisbloodinstantlycaughtstep
withhers!"Well,thisisfame--howdoyoulikeit?"shebanteredhim.
Heshrugged."Iguessit'sagoodpageforLoot."
Shenoddeddelightedly."YouseeIwasright!Itoldyouyoumustseeitall.
Butwhere'sLauraLou?Surelyshewaswithyouaminuteago?"
"Yes.Butshe'sgone.""Gone?"
"WithMrs.Pulsifer.Ithinkthey'reintheotherroom."
Theireyesmet,andMrs.Tarrantlaughed."I'venoticedsignsofuneasinessin
Jetlately.Sherealizesthatshemadeabadmistakelastyearaboutyourshort
story,andIhearshenowtalksoffoundingaFirstNovelprize.She'sprobably
tellingLauraLouallaboutit."
Vance laughed too; and then they turned together to the bust, which Mrs.
Tarranthadnotyetseen.Shestudieditthoughtfullyforalongtime;then,as
othervisitorscrowdedheraway,sheturnedbacktoVance."Ididn'tthinkthat
Stramgirlhaditinher.Shehascaughtaglimpseofyou,Vance--aglimpseof
whatyou'regoingtobe.Don'tyouthinkso,Frenny?"
"Well,I'msorrytothinkthatouryoungfriend'sgoingtohaveagoitre,"said
Frensidegloomily.
"Oh, dear--what a pity you can't like anything that isn't photographic!
Artistically,youknow,"sheexplainedtoVance,"Frenny's never got beyond
theenlargedphotographofthe'eighties,whenpeopleusedtohavetheirdear
onesdonetwicethesizeoflife,withthewhiskerstouchedupincrayon."
Vanceechoedherlaugh.Heechoeditbecausecertaininflexionsofhervoice
werealwayslaughter-provokingtohim,andhewouldhavethoughtanything
funny if her eyes and her dimple had told him it was. But in reality he did
thinkthebustqueer,andhadneverunderstoodwhyRebeccahadgivenhima
swollenthroat,andbiglumpsonhisforehead,asifhe'dbeeninafightandgot
theworstofit.Andherememberedtoo,withapang,thecolossalphotograph
whichGrandmaScrimserhadhadmadeofGrandpaafterhisdeath,withthe
hyacinthinecurlsandlow-neckedcollarofhisprime,aphotographwhichthe
familyhadallthoughtso"speaking"thatevenMrs.Westondarednotgrumble
at the expense. . . . Still, Vance, since then, had had a glimpse of other
standards, and as he studied through Halo's eyes the rough clay head with
tumbled hair and heavy brooding forehead he began to see that under her
surface mannerisms Rebecca Stram had reached down to his inner self, that
theimageseemed,asHalosaid,tobodyforthwhathewastryingtobe.
"Itoughtn'ttohavebeendonetillafterI'vepulledoffLoot,"hesaid,tryingto
hidehissatisfactionunderajoke.
"Oh,but it's a proof that you will pull it off,"Halo rejoined;andthenother
people came up to them both, and swept them apart. He found her again at
last,seatedalonein acorner,andas hesatdownbesideher shesaid: "Who
wasthatridiculousmanwhowasbraggingabouthavingknownyouwhenyou
wereaboy?"
Vance'sdormantindignationagainstBuntyHayesflamedupagain."Oh,he's
themanagerof'Storecraft.'Hewasjustdoingablurbfortheshow."
"Obviously.Butwhereonearthdidyouknowhim?"
Vancehesitated."IranacrosshimatPaul'sLanding.Heusedtogoroundwith
UptonTracy."
"Oh,Isee."Shemadealittlegrimaceandrosetoherfeet."Well,I'mgoing.I
onlycameheretoseeyou.ImeanRebecca'syou,"shecorrectedherselfwitha
smile.
"Notyours?"heasked,flushing.
"No,I'dratherseehimsomeeveningquietlyathome.Whenareyougoingto
bringmeyournextchapters?"
"Anytime,"hestammered,whirlingwiththejoyofit;andshenamedadate
whichheofcourseaccepted,ashewouldhaveacceptedanyother,atthecost
ofbreakingnomatterwhatotherengagements.Hisheadwaslightanddizzy
withanticipationashewatchedhervanishwithFrensideinthethrong.
When he roused himself from the spell he remembered that Laura Lou was
somewhereinthegallery.Hewentbacktolookforher,butshewasnowhere
tobefound,andatlastheconcluded,thoughhalfincredulously,thatshemust
havegoneoffwithMrs.Pulsifer.Itwasveryunlikeher--buthehaddiscovered
that Laura Lou was often unlike herself, and that he really knew next to
nothingofthesecretspringsofheractionsandemotions.Hedidnotthinkof
thisforlong;hisheartandbrainwerestillfullofthethoughtofMrs.Tarrant.
He was to see her again in two days: "a quiet evening," she had said. That
meant,he and she aloneunderthelamp, in thatstillmeditative room which
was like no other that he knew: a room of which the very walls seemed to
think. And they would sit there alone together, while the logs crackled and
fell,andhewouldreadhisnewstufftoher,andshewouldsitmotionlessand
silent,herchinonherliftedhand,herlongarmmodelledbythelamplight;and
evenwhilehiseyeswereonthepagehewouldseeherhandandarm,andher
nearnesswouldburnitselfatthesametimeintohisbodyandbrain.
He slipped out of the gallery and found himself below in the street. The
weatherhadchanged,ithadgrownverycold,andtheskyscrapersflungdown
a rough wind into the tunnel-like thoroughfares at their base. Vance
rememberedtheMarchsnowstormontheHudson,whichhadcomeafter
justsuchamildspell;andthatledhimtowonderifLauraLouhadgotsafely
homebeforethechange.Herprettycoatwiththeblondfurwasonlyasummer
garment,putonbecauseitwasherbest;andshemustn'tcatchanothercold,he
reflected. But his mind was too full of excited thoughts for that one to
dominateit.Hewasatoncetoohappyandtooanxioustodwellforlongon
anything;andheturnedwestwardandstruckintothepark,totrytowalkhis
jostlingideasintoorder.
TheencounterwithBuntyHayeshaddisgustedhimprofoundly.Thatkindof
slovenlygood-naturewasmerelyacaricatureofthesuperficialtolerance,the
moralapathy,ofmostofthepeoplehecameincontactwith.Nothingmattered
to any of them except to get on, to shove a way through and crowd out the
others.TherewasHayes,amanwhohadreasontohatehim--orthoughtso--
wholovedhiswife,andmustthereforebejealousofhim,andyetinwhomthe
primitive emotions were so worn down by the perpetual effort to get on, to
gainaninch or two in the daily struggle,thattheycould be silenced at will
wheneveritwastohisinterest.AsVancetrampedonagainstthestingingwind
hisangersubsidedalso,butforadifferentreason.Hayes,thehumanfact,was
being gradually absorbed, transubstantiated, into the stuff of his book; was
turning from a vulgar contemptible man into a grotesque symbol of the
nationalfutility....AndthenVancebegantoexaminehisowncase.Hehad
not complied, he had tried to stand on his feet, to defend his intellectual
integrity.Andwherewashe?Whatwashe?Theflatteredandenviedauthorof
thenewestcraze,asuccessfulfirstnovel;yetinhimselfanunhappypowerless
creature, poor, hungry, in debt, the bewildered bondslave of the people he
despised,thepeoplewhosacrificeeverythingandeverybodytogettingon.
Andin thussumming uphis casehehadleftout thecentral void:the blank
enigma of his marriage. He could hardly remember now the gleams of joy
which Laura Lou's presence had shed on their early days. He had imagined
thatshesharedallhisideas,whereasshewasmerelythesoundingboardofhis
young exuberance. Now the delusions and raptures were all gone. If he and
shecouldhavehadahouseoftheirown,insteadofhavingtoliveinoneroom,
how often would he have sought her out? All that remained of his flaming
dream was a cold half-impatient pity. He supposed, vaguely, that the real
meaning of marriage, the need that upheld it as an institution in spite of all
revoltsandironies,wasman'sprimitivecravingforahome,children,amoral
anchorage.Marriagehadbroughthimnoneofthese.Whatsensewastherein
living in one room with an idle childless woman whom he had long since
forgotten though she was always there? He despised himself for yielding to
theirenforcedpropinquity,andgivingher
what her soft endearments asked as carelessly as if she had been the casual
companionofanight.
Hesatonabenchintheparkandrevolvedtheseworld-oldriddlestillthecold
drewhimtohisfeet,andheturnedhomeward,heavyandconfusedaswhenhe
hadstarted.
Laura Lou must have got back long before him. She would be waiting at
home, perhaps resenting the fact of his not having stayed with her at the
gallery.Heswungalongimpatiently,tryingtoputoutofhismindthesecret
well of joy that fed him: the thought of the quiet evening with Mrs. Tarrant
andhisbook....Sincehehadrungherupthatevening,morethanamonth
ago,hehadbeenwithherperilouslyoften,meetingheratdinners,atinformal
studio parties, sometimes going with her to the theatre or to a symphony
concert.Tobewithhernearlyeveryday,tosharewithherallhisartisticand
intellectualjoys,tocarrytohereverynewexperience,everyquestion,every
curiosity, had become an irresistible need. She had drawn him back to the
frankfootingoffriendship,andskilfullykepthimthere.Buttheyhadnotyet
hadanotherlongeveningalonebythelamp,andnowhefeltthathemustpour
outhiswholesoultoherorhavenopeace.
Laura Lou was huddled up close to the radiator, which gave out but little
warmthonMrs.Hubbard'sthirdfloor.Shehadtossedherhatandcoatonthe
bed,andwrappedherstoopingshouldersinthebedquilt.
"Well,"Vancesaid,withhollowgaiety,"wherethedevildidyourunawayto?
Ihuntedforyouallovertheplace."
Sheliftedafaceinwhichtriumphstruggledwithresentment.Hesawthatfor
some reason she was annoyed with him, yet for another pleased. "Oh, I got
tiredstayingroundtherewithallthosestrangepeople;andIcouldn'tbearto
lookanylongeratthathatefulthing."
"Whathatefulthing?"
"Thatawfulbust.Howcouldyouletthemshowsuchathing?Itmademesick
toseeit."
"Didn'tyoulikeit?It'sbeenagooddealadmired,"hemuttered,piquedbyher
tone.
"Why, Vanny, can't you see they're only laughing at you when they tell you
that?"
"Who's'they'?"
"Why,allyourfashionablefriends.ThatMrs.Pulsifer,forinstance.Andeven
she wasn't sure. She said: 'Do you suppose we ought to admire it, Mrs.
Weston?'AndwhenIsaid:'Ineversawanythingsoawful,'Icouldseeshewas
kindofrelieved.Oh,Vanny,"shecontinued,herfacebrightening,"Ithinkyou
ought to see more of her. She says she was the first one to recognize your
talent,andshewantedeversomuchtohelpyou,butsheneverseesyouany
morebecauseyouwon'tgowithanybodybutthoseTarrants."
Hisbloodleaptup."Nonsense--thatfoolofawoman!Thebiggesthumbug
..."
"It'snothumbugtosayyoualwaysgowiththeTarrants....Youneverlefther
atthegallery...."
"He'smyemployer.I'vetoldyouahundredtimes..."Hisvoiceroseangrily,
buthecheckedhimself,resolvednottoletherdrawhimintoanotherwrangle
overthatthreadbaregrievance.Shemightthinkwhatshepleased--explaining
anythingtoherwasuseless.Todivertherattentionhequestionedironically:"I
supposeyoutalkedmeoverwithHayestoo?"
Her colour rose quickly, painting her cheekbones with the familiar feverish
patches."Inevertalkyouoverwithanybody--notthewayyoumean."
"Well,youdidtalkwithHayes,didn'tyou?"
Shelookedatherhusbandhalffurtively,halfinresentment."Hewasalmost
theonlypersonIknewintheplace.OfcourseItalkedwithhim.Ididn'tknow
youwouldn'twantmeto."
Vance was silent. Since the reconciliation at Paul's Landing he had never
spokentohiswifeofHayes.Atthattime,inanswertohisbriefquestioning,
shehad sobbinglyadmitted thatHayeswas readyto marryherif he,Vance,
didn'twantherany longer.Hayes,it appeared,had arrangeditall withMrs.
Tracy,andLauraLouhadbeenonthepointofacquiescingbecauseshewas
convincedthatherhusbandnolongerlovedherandhadbeenunfaithfultoher
with"thatotherwoman."
Feelingherthensosoftandsurrenderedonhisbreast,seeingherdespair,and
consciousofhisownshortcomings,Vancehadbrushedasidethesenegligible
intrigues, and sworn to her that they would begin a new life together. And
from that day he had never questioned her about Hayes, had purposely
avoidedpronouncinghisname.Hehadthefeelingthatthetiebetweenhimself
andLauraLouwaseventhentoofrailtostandtheslighteststrain....Butnow
theinstinctofself-protectionstirredhimtocruelty;he,whowasnevercruel,
desiredtohurthiswife."DoyouseeHayesoften?Doeshecomehere?He's
justthekindtosneakroundafteryouwhenheknowsI'mattheoffice...."
Howstupidthewordssoundedwhenhehadspokenthem!Howlittlebearing
theyhadontheintrinsicflawinhisrelationwithLauraLou!
Shehesitatedamoment;thenshesaidsimply:"I'venevertalkedwithhimbut
oncesincewe'vebeenhere,onedaywhenImethiminthestreet."
"Oh,that'sallright;Ididn'tmean--I'mnogaoler:youcanseehimhereatthe
houseallyouwantto,"hegrumbled,irresoluteandhalfashamed.
"WhenIspoketohimjustnowatthegallery,"shecontinued,"allIdidwasto
thankhimforthelovelythingshesaidaboutyouwhenwefirstcamein."
"Thelovely--?"Vance echoed,forgetting,inhis blankamazement,whathad
gonebefore.
She looked surprised. "Why, didn't you think what he said about you was
lovely?" She smiled a little; her tone was confident and yet conciliatory.
"Sometimes I think you don't realize you're celebrated, Vanny. He said you
were--hetoldallthosepeopleso.Ithoughtwhathesaidwasfine."
ForamomentVancethoughtshemustbemakingfunofhim,avengingherself
bythisclumsypleasantryforhissupposedneglect.Butshewasincapableof
irony; he saw that she had really taken Hayes's oratory as a tribute to her
husband'sgenius.
"Whathesaidofme--thatblitheringrubbish?Itwasaninsult,that'sall!And
thatheapoflies;blowingthatwaybeforeallthosepeopleabouthavingknown
me since I was a kid! Good God--you didn't thank him for making an
everlastingfoolofme?"
Her lower lip began to tremble, and a mist of distress dimmed her face.
"NothingIeverdoisright.Ididn'tknowyoudidn'tevenwantmetospeakto
himwhenwemet."
"I've told you you can speak to him as much as you like. What beats me is
yournotseeingthathewaspubliclyholdingmeuptoridicule."
Her mouth grew narrow and vindictive. "I thought the bust did that. I was
gratefultohimfordoingthebesthecouldsothatpeoplewouldlookatyou
andnotatthebust."
"Oh, God," Vance groaned. He turned away, and began to fumble with the
papersonthericketylittletablebetweenbedandwindowwherehehadtodo
hiswriting.Hehadmeanttobuckledowntoahardevening'swork,togethis
chapters into final shape before submitting them to Mrs. Tarrant. But Laura
Louhadageniusforputtinghimintoamoodwhichmadeworkormeditation
equally impossible. . . . As he stood there sullenly, with his back to her, he
heard a low sound like a child's whimper, and turned around, irritated with
himselfandwithher.
"Oh,seehere,child!Don'tcry--what'stheuse?Ididn'tmean...allImeant
was..."
"Youhurtmeso,"shesobbed.
"Nonsense,LauraLou.Listen...Don'tbeagoose...."Hecaughthertohim
andfeltthefeveronherlips.Pressedeachtoeach,theyclungfast,gropingfor
oneanotherthroughthetroubledchannelsoftheblood.
XXXVI
AfterVancehadfinishedreading,HaloTarrantsatsilent.Thelibrarywasvery
still.Onlyonelampwaslit,onalowtablenearVance'sarmchair;therestof
theroomhungremoteandshadowyaboutthem,exceptwhenadartofflame
fromthehearthwokeuparowofbookshereandthere,ormadetheflanksof
abronzevaseglitterlikeawetrock.
Vance'sheartwasbeatinghurriedly.Hisvoicewashoarsewithexcitement;he
couldnothavereadanylongerwithoutbreakingdown.Inhisagitationhedid
notdaretolifthiseyestohislistener's,butsatfumblingmechanicallyamong
thepagesonhisknee.Sincethefirstparagraphhehadbeenmoreandmore
certainthatherverdictwouldbeunfavourable.
"Well--?" he questioned at length, with an uneasy laugh. He could hardly
enduretheintervalthatelapsedbeforesheanswered.Histhroatwasparched,
andlittlepricklesranalloverhisskin.Hefeltasifshewouldneverspeak.
"Ithinkyououghttotakemoretimeoverit,"shesaid."Thecanvasismuch
biggerthanyou'reusedto--andthesubjectissonew.Therearethingsinitthat
Ilikeverymuch;buttherearebitsthatseemincomplete,undigested..
..I'msureyoucandothebook;butyoumustgiveyourselftime...lotsof
time.Can'tyouputitawayforafewmonthsandturntosomethingelse?"
Her verdict was exactly what he had expected, yet it filled him with
unreasonablediscouragement.Shealwayslitinstantlyontheflawsofwhich
hehimselfwashalfconscious,evenintheheatofcomposition,theflawshe
hopedshewouldoverlook,butknewinadvancethatshewoulddetect;andfor
this reason he lost his critical independence in her presence, and swung
uneasilybetweenelationanddespondency.
"Yes,Iknow.It'safailure,"hemuttered.
"Howcanyoutell,whenonlyafewchaptersarewritten?Andinthemthere's
somuchthat'sgood.Thatfirstimpressionoftheheartlessoverwhelmingness
ofNewYork--it'sbeendonesooften,butnoonehasseenitandfeltitexactly
asyouhave. ...Andtheopeningsceneinthelittlewesterntown--allthat's
goodtoo,exceptthatperhaps--"shepaused,liftinghereyesdoubtfullytohis,
"perhaps when you did that part you'd been reading The Corner Grocery a
littletooattentively,"sheconcludedwithherhesitatingsmile.
Hesmiledtoo:itfeltlikeadrycontractionofthemuscles."Toomuchofthe
sedulousape,youmean?"
"Well,youseemtobestrugglingagainstcrosscurrentsofinfluence.Butyou'll
workoutofthemwhenyoureallygetintoyoursubject."
"Troubleisit'snotmysubject,"hebrokeinnervously;butshecontinued:"Not
yet,perhaps;butitwillbeifyou'llonlygiveyourselfmoretime."Helooked
up and met her scrutinizing eyes. "You look terribly tired, Vance. Can't you
dropthebookforafewmonths?"
She made the suggestion gently, appealingly, in her most tranquil and
compassionatevoice.Yes,hethought,stirredbysuddenexasperation:thatwas
thewaywithpeopletowhommaterialeasewasasmuchamatterof
courseastheairtheybreathed.Itwasalwaysanunwholesomebusinessforthe
richandpoortomix;thepooroughttokeeptotheirownkind.
"Dropit?"heechoedwithalaugh."Well,thatwouldn'tbeexactlyeasy.Your
husbandhasagreedtoletmeoffmymonthlyarticlesothatIcankeepallmy
timeforthenovel;andnowyouadvisemetodropthenovel!WhatI'vegotto
doistofinishitasquicklyasIcan,andletittakeitschance.I'mdoomedto
writepotboilers--ifeverIcanlearnthetrick!"
Shepaledalittle.Hesaw thathiswordshadhurther, andhewasgladthey
had.Shecontinuedtolookathimearnestly,withhernarrowedwistfulgaze.
"Youneverwilllearnthetrick;I'mnotafraidforyou."
Helaughedagain--shewaspreposterous!"Oh,well,Ididn'tcomeheretotalk
business,"hesaidirritably."WhatIwantedwasyouropinion--nowI'vegotit.
Andasit'sexactlythesameasmineI'dthrowthebookintothefireifIcould."
Shereceivedthisinsilence,sittingquitestill,asherwaywaswhenshewas
turning over anything in her mind. "Vance," she said abruptly, "when you
broughtme these last chaptersyoudidn't feel likethataboutthem. Youhad
faith in them an hour ago. You mustn't let my chance suggestions influence
you;noartistshouldcaresomuchforwhatpeoplesay...."
Hejumpedup,thepagesonhiskneescatteringtothefloor."Carewhatpeople
say?Idon'tcareadamnwhatpeoplesay....It'sonlywhatyousay,"hebroke
outwithsuddenvehemence.
A little flash of light ran over her face: her only way of blushing was this
luminous glow on her pallor. "But that's even more unreasonable . . ." she
began.
"Oh,God,what'sreasongottodowithit?You'vebeenthebreathoflifetome
allthesemonths.Ifyoucutoffafellow'soxygenhecollapses....Don'ttalk
tomeaboutnotcaringwhatyousay!There'dbenothinglefttomethen."
Thesilenceoftheduskyroomseemedtoreceiveandreverberatehiswordsas
the shadows caught and intensified the wavering gleams of the fire. Vance
leaned against the mantel and stared down with blind eyes at the scattered
pages of his manuscript. For a while--a long while, it seemed to him--Mrs.
Tarrantdidnotmoveorlookup.
"There'dbeyourgeniuslefttoyou,"shesaid,stillmotionlessinhercorner.
Helaughed."Isometimesthinkmygeniusisaphantasmwe'vemanufactured
between us. When I'm not with you I don't believe in it--I don't believe in
anythingwhenI'mnotwithyou."
"Oh,Vance,don't--don'tblaspheme!"
"Blaspheme!Theonlyblasphemy wouldbeto saythatyou're notthewhole
earthtome!"
Stillshedidnotmove;andherimmobilityheldhimspellboundonthehearth.
"That's too much to be to anyone," he heard her murmur, and immediately
afterward:"AllI'vewantedwastohelpyouwithyourbooks..
.."
"Mybooks?Mybooks?"Hemovedasteportwonearertoher,andthenstood
checkedagainbyherimmobility."Whatdoyousupposebooksaremadeof?"
hecried."Paperandink,orthemarrowofaman'sbonesandthebloodofhis
brain?Butyou'reinmybooks,you'repartofthem,whetheryouwanttobeor
not,whetheryoubelieveinthemordespisethem,whetheryoubelieveinme
ordespiseme;andyou'reinme,inmybodyandblood,justasyou'reinmy
books,andjustasfatally.It'sdonenowandyoucan'tgetawayfromme,you
can'tundowhatyou'vedone:you'rethethoughtsIthink,andthevisionsIsee,
and the air I breathe, and the food I eat--and everything, everything, in the
earthandoverit...."
Hebrokeoff,startledbyhisownoutburst.Hewhowasingeneralsotongue-
tied,towhomeloquencecameonlywiththepen,whatpowerhaddriventhis
rush of words from him? Some fiery fusion of his whole being, the
heightening and merging of every faculty, seemed to have unloosed his
tongue.Anditwasallashehadsaid.Heandhisartandthiswomanwereone,
indissolublyoneinapassionatemutualunderstanding.Heandsheunderstood
each other--didn't she know it?--with their intelligences and their emotions,
withtheireyes,theirhands,theirlips.Ah,herlips!Allhecouldseenowwas
theshapeofherlips,thatmouthhauntedbyallthesmilesthathadeverplayed
overit,asiftheyweregatheredupinherlikeshutflowerbuds.
"Didn'tyouknow--didn'tyouknow?"hestammered.
Shehadrisenandstoodalittlewayofffromhim."Aboutyou--?""Aboutyou
andme.There'snodifference.Isthereanydifference?"
Hemovedcloserandcaughtherhandsinhis.Theylaytherelikebirdswith
theirwingsfolded;birdsthatarefrightened,andthensuddenlyliestill,with
littlesubsidingpalpitations.Hewastryingtoseeherface,totraceitlineby
line."Oneofyoureyebrowsisalittlehigherthantheother--Inevernoticedit
before!"hecriedexultantly,asifhehadmadeanearthshakingdiscovery.She
laughedalittleandslippedherhandsoutofhis.
"Oh,stopexploringme--youfrightenme,"shemurmured.
"Frightenyou?Imeanto.Andyoufrightenme.It'sbecausewe'resoclose.
..leaningoverintothegulfsofeachother....Don'tyoulikeit,don'tyou
wantit?Don'tyouseethere'snodifferenceanymorebetweenyouandme?"
Shedrewawayfromhim."MypoorVance--Iseeonlywhatis.It'smycurse."
Hisheartfellwithathump.Allofasuddensheseemedhopelesslyfaraway,
spectralandcold.Inexperiencedashewas,heknewthiswasnocleverfeint,
thatshewasnotplayingwithhim.Therewasafearlessdirectnessinhervoice.
"You mean to tell me," he cried,"thatyou'reall right? That your life is full
enough without me?" She made no answer, and he burst out: "I shouldn't
believeyouifyoudid!"
Theexclamationbroughtafaintsmiletoherlips."Iwon'tthen.Whatwould
betheuse?Andwhatdifferencewoulditmake?I'mhere--you'rethere.It'snot
our nearness to each other that frightens me; it's the leagues and leagues
between--thatis,whenyoubegintotalklikethis...."
"Haven'tyoualwaysknownIwasgoingtotalklikethis?"heinterruptedher.
"IsupposeIhave...butIhopeditwouldn'tbeforalongtime...."
"Well,it'sbeenalongtimesinceIbegantoloveyou."Againshewassilent.
"YourememberThundertop?"
"Oh,Vance--eventhen?"
"Evenbefore,Iguess.ThefirsttimeIreadpoetryorlookedatasunsetyou
musthavebeenmixedupwithit.Ididn'thavetowaittoseeyou."
She had sunk back into her armchair and sat there with her hands over her
eyes.Hewantedtosnatchthemaway,tokissheronthelidsandlips;but
therehungbetweenthemthefaintaweofherpresence.Shewasthewoman
hisarmslongedfor,butshewasalsothegoddess,themiracle,theunattainable
beingwhohauntedthepeaksofhisimagination.
"She'ssorryforme,that'sall,"hethoughtbitterly.
Otherfellows,hefelt,wouldhaveknownhowtobreakthroughthebarrier;he
hadnosucharts,andprobablynoexperienceoflifewouldinstructhim.There
wasanabsolutenessinhislovewhichbenumbedhim,nowthathisexaltation
hadfallen.Ithadalwaysseemedtohimthatonthepinnaclestherewasjust
roomtokneelandbemute.
HaloTarrantdroppedherhandsandlookedupathimbetweennarrowedlids.
Shewasexcessivelypale;herfacelookedhaggard,almostold."Oh,Vance,"
shemurmured,"takecare...."
"Takecare?"
"Nottospoilsomethingperfect.Thisfreefriendship.It'sbeenso--exquisite."
The blood rushed back to his heart, and his eyes were blurred with happy
tears. They choked in his throat, and he stood looking at her with a kind of
desperatejoy.
"I'veneveroncecalledyoubyyourname,even,"hestammeredout.
"Well,callmebyitnow,"sheanswered,stillsmiling.Shestoodupandmoved
towardhim."Friendsdothat,don'tthey?Butwecan'tgobeyondfriendship--"
"Thishasgotnothingtodowithfriendship."
"Oh,whatamistake,Vance!Itincludesfriendship--"Shespokeverylow,asif
whatshehadtosayweredifficult;buthereyesdidnotleavehim."Itincludes
everything,"shesaid.
"Well,then--ifitdoes?"
"Only, what we've got to do is to choose--take what we may, and leave the
rest."
"Never, never! I can't leave it." He was looking at her almost sternly. "Can
you?"hechallengedher.
"Yes,"shesaid,facinghimresolutely."Ah--thenyoudon'tcare!"
"Callitthat,then.AtleastI'vecaredforourfriendship...."
"Friendship! Friendship! If that means seeing you for a few minutes every
now and then, and talking to you this way, with half the room between us,
when what I want is nothing else than all of you--all your time, all your
thoughts,allyourself--thenIdon'tgiveacurseforyourfriendship."
Shesaidnothing,andhiswordswereflungbackathimfromthedeadwallof
hersilence.Hedidn'tgiveacurseforherfriendship!Hehadsaidthat!When
herfriendshiphadbeenalloflifetohim,thebreathofhisnostrils,thesightof
hiseyes--well,and it was true nevertheless that he wanted no more of it, or
ratherthatithadceasedtoexistforhim,andthathenceforthshemustbethe
world'slengthawayfromhim,orelseinhisarms.
"Youdon'tunderstand--Iwanttokissyou,"hestammered,lookingatherwith
desperateeyes.
"That'swhyIsay--wecan'tgoon.""Can't--why?"
She hesitated, and he saw that the hand resting on the back of her chair
trembledalittle.
"Becauseyoudon'twantto?"heburstout.
"BecauseIwon'ttakealoverwhileIhaveahusband--orwhilemyloverhasa
wife,"shesaidprecipitately.
Vancestoodmotionless.Amomentbeforehisthoughtshadenvelopedherina
million caressing touches, soul had seemed to clasp soul as body would
presently embrace body, the distance between them had vanished in the
hallucinatingfusionofsightand touch. There had been no other world than
that which the quiet room built in about them, no human beings in it but
themselves. And now, abruptly thrust across the plane on which they stood,
the other crowded grimacing world had pushed itself in, and between them
stoodLauraLouandthesordidboardinghouseroom,themoneylendersand
theunfinishedbook,Mrs.Hubbardandthewashingbills,andtheaccountthat
LauraLouwasalwaysrunningupatthedruggist's...
"And because I can't leave my husband--any more than you can leave your
wife...."
HewasnotsureifitwasHalowhohadcompletedthesentence,orifitwasthe
echoofhisownthought.
Leave Laura Lou? No, of course he couldn't. What nonsense! There was
nobodyelsetolookafterher.Hehadchosentohaveitso--anditwasso.His
worldhadclosedinonhimagain,hewashandcuffedandchainedtoit.Hefelt
likeamaninarailwaysmashwhohascomesuddenlybacktoconsciousness
andfindshimselfpinneddownunderadeadweight.Thesluggishcurrentof
reality was forcing itself once more into his veins, and he was faint with
agony.
Fromalongwayoffheseemedtohearhersaying:Thismustn'tbetheend,
Vance.Someday...?
(Oh,yes--someday!)
"Ihavebeenabletohelpyou,haven'tI?...andIwant,Idosowanttogoon.
.."
(Whatwerewomenmadeof?Hewondered.)"You'llpromiseme,won'tyou?"
(Oh,he'dpromiseanything,ifonlyarescuepartywouldcomealongandhoist
upthisdeadweightoffhischest.Couldn'tsheseewhathewassuffering...?)
"Yes,I'llpromise."
(Youhadtobeeverlastinglypromisingthingstowomen...evenwithyour
lifebloodrunningoutofyou,they'dmakeyoupromise....)
"Well,good-bye.""Good-bye,Vance."
Heturned to go, andheardalittle exclamationbehindhim.He looked back
fromthedoorwayandsawthatshehadstoopeddownandwasgatheringup
thesheetsofmanuscripthehadleftscatteredaboutthefloor.
Hecameback,stammering:"Here...don'tyoutrouble...I'lldoit..."and
kneltdownonthefloorbesideher.Thepagesseemedinnumerable;
they had fluttered away on all sides, he had to reach out right and left to
recoverthem.Onehadevenflownoverthebrassfenderontothehearth.Yetin
asecondtheywereallgatheredupagain:therewerenonormaltimemeasures
inthisworldoffever.
Sheheldoutthepagesshehadputtogether;hishandtouchedhersashetook
them.Thenheturnedawayandthedoorshutonhim.Thatwasover.
XXXVII
Vance stood in the street and looked up into the night sky. The star-strewn
darkness, though blotched with the city's profaning flare, recalled that other
skyhehadlookedupatfromthebeach,whenhehadcreptoutatdawnfrom
hiswife'sside.
Thesea--hehadneverseenitsince!Couldhegettoitnow?hewondered.Its
infinitetidesseemedtobebreakingoverhim;itssoundwasinhisbreast.The
craving to stand on that beach swept over him again, vehement,
uncontrollable,surgingupfromthedepthswhichheldthesourceofthings.He
stoodstaringathisvisiontillitmasteredhim.Hemustseetheseaagain,must
seeitthisverynight.Oneinthemorning...aMarchmorning.Buthemust
gettheresomehow;gettherebeforedawn,waylaythemiracle.
...
HemadehiswayacrosstothePennsylvaniaStation,andaskedabouttrains.
Therewasonejustgoingout:hefoundhimselfinitasitbegantomove.The
hasteofgettinginandthemysteryofglidingoutsoeasilyintodarknessand
theunknownreducedhisprivatetumulttosomethinglikepeace.Herecalled
the same sensation, humbling yet satisfying, when he had gone out on the
morning after his wedding, and felt so awed yet safe in the sight of the
immensities....Thetrainpassedonbetweenislandsofmasonryandendless
streetsstrungwithlights,thenthroughthehushofdimlyglimpsedtreesand
pastures;itstoppedatsleepystations,pulledoutagain,gropedonindreamlike
confusionunderablackskyfullofstars.Atlastalittlestationstoodoutdark
againstpallidsandhills...andVance,aloneontheplatform,watchedthetrain
clank on again uncertainly, as if groping out a new trail for itself. Then he
turnedandbegantogropeforhis
own way. A worn-off slip of moon hung in the west, powerless against the
immensityofdarkness;butwhenhereachedthelastlineofdunestheywere
edged with a trembling of light which gradually widened out into the vast
palloroftheAtlantic.
Thereitwasatlast:theseaatnight,awindyMarchnighttossingblackcloud
trails across the stars and shaking down their rainy glitter onto the hurried
undulationsofthewaves.Thewindwascold,butVancedidnotfeelit.The
old affinity woke in him, the sense of some deep complementary power
movingthoseendlesssurgesasitswayedhislisteningself.Hedroppeddown
onthebeachandlaythere,lettingthenightandtheseasweepthroughhimon
thewingsofthepassionategale.Hefeltlikeaspeckinthosevastelemental
hands, yet sure of himself and his future as a seed being swept to the cleft
whereitbelonged.Andafterawhileheceasedtofeelanythingexceptthathe
wasobscurely,infinitesimallyapartofthisgreatnocturnalsplendour....
Atfiveinthemorning,throughdyinglightsanddeadstreets,hemadehisway
backto Mrs. Hubbard's. Alltheglory had vanished; hisbrainwassick with
the forced inrush of reality. A last glimpse of the impossible swept through
him.Halohadsaid:"BecauseIwillneverleavemyhusbandformylover..."
andthatmeant--whatelsecoulditmean?--thatshewouldhavecometohimif
therehadbeennoobstaclebetweenthem.Foronemomentitseemedalmost
enoughtofeelthatthere,outofhissightbutinhissoul,thegreatreachesof
herlovelaytossingandsilvering....Butashedrewnearhisowndoorthe
uglinessofthepresentblottedoutthevision.AtthecornerofSixthAvenuea
half-tipsygirlsolicitedhim.AtMrs. Hubbard'sdoor,agauntcat shotoutof
thearea.Thatwashisworld,hisstreet,hishouse....Heknewnowthathe
andshewouldneverbefree,eitherofthem.Shewouldnevercometohim;it
wasallafadingblurofunreality....Heputhiskeyintothelock,andwent
upstairswiththefeetofanoldman.
ThenextdayLauraLouwasinbed withoneofherfeverishcolds.Shehad
caughtachillthedayofthe"Storecraft"show,inherthinsummercoat.These
colds were frequent with her now, and each seemed to leave her a little
weaker.Vancedidnotdaretosendforthedoctoragain;hehadbeenseveral
times lately, and there had been no money to pay him. Vance did what he
could to make her comfortable, and explained to Mrs. Hubbard-- whose
manner,astheweekspassed,thoughstilloppressivelyladylike,had
grown more distant--the food must be carried up, milk heated, the cough
mixture measured out. Then, having put a quarter into the hand of the
dishevelledSwedishservantgirl,whoseldomunderstoodhisinstructionsand
nevercarriedthemout,hetookhiswaytotheoffice.
TherehadbeennowordfromLambart&Co.,thepublisherswhohadbeenso
confidentaboutdetachinghimfromDreckandSaltzer;probablythesubjectof
hisnovelhadmadethemlukewarm.Inhisletterboxhefoundaletterfromhis
grandmother; there was no time to read it then, but the sight of her writing
brought up a vision of Euphoria, of the comfortable Maplewood Avenue
house,thesafetyanddecencyofhome.Whatifheweretoaccepthisfather's
suggestion and take Laura Lou out there to live? If he took on a newspaper
job, and wrote no novels or literary articles, he supposed his contracts with
Dreck and Saltzer and the New Hour would lapse of themselves. He would
simplygobacktobeingtheoldVanceWestonagain,anditwouldbeasifthe
NewYorkonehadneverexisted...
.
At the office he found neither Tarrant nor Eric Rauch. He had brought his
workwithhim,andinstalledhimselfathisdeskwiththeideaofgoingover
his last chapters, and at least trying to eliminate the resemblances to The
CornerGrocery.Butthesightofthepagessuddenlyevokedthelibrarywhere
hehadsatthenightbeforewithHaloTarrant,andtheflooronwhichheand
shehadknelttogethertopickupthescatteredsheets.Thepaperburnedwith
hertouch.Heshuthiseyesandpusheditaside....Euphoriawastheonlyway
out....
Heopenedhisgrandmother'sletter. Shealwayswroteaffectionately, andthe
carelessfreedomofherphraseswouldcallheruptohimintheflesh,withher
velvetyvoiceandheavyramblingbody.Thelivestpersonhe'deverknown,he
thought, smiling. Then he read: "Vance, child, I'm coming to New York--be
therenextweekwithSaidieToler..."(shealwayswroteofherdaughtersby
theirfullnames)..."Iguessyou'renotassurprisedasIam;andIfeelasif
GodHimselfmustbealittlemitesurprisedtoo..."Shewentontoexplain
that,sinceGrandpa'sdeath, shehadbeen ableto givemoretime tospiritual
things,andhadbeenrewardedbytheinvitationtopreachinvariouschurches,
not only at Euphoria, New Swedenborg, and Swedenville, but way beyond
Chicago, at big places like Dakin and Lakeshore--only she didn't call it
preaching(hecouldbesureofthat!)but"MeetingGod";didn'thethinkthat
was a good phrase? Her "Meeting God" talks had been published in Spirit
Life, and the paper's circulation had gone up so much that they'd already
contracted with her for another series; and suddenly she'd got an invitation
fromagroupofintellectualpeopleinNew
York, who called themselves "The Seekers"--a beautiful name, wasn't it? It
appearedthey'dcomeacrosssomeofhertalkinSpiritLife,andbeensomuch
struckthattheywantedhertocomeovertoNewYorkforaweek,andspeak
in private houses, and give the "Seekers" a chance to submit their personal
doubtsanddifficultiestoher.("Youknow,"sheadded,droppingintoherold
humorous tone, "it's holiday work telling other folks what's wrong with
them.")Ofcourse,she said,shecouldn'thelpbut seeGod's handinall this,
and when Spirit Life offered to pay her fare and Saidie's out and back she
telegraphed to the "Seekers" that she'd come at once--and Vance needn't
troubleabouther,becausesheandSaidieweregoingtostaywithaMrs.Lotus
Mennenkoop, a lovely woman who lived at Bronxville and was one of the
"Seekers"--butofcourseshemustseeherboyassoonasshearrived,andget
acquaintedwithhernewgranddaughter;andwouldVancebesureandcallher
uprightoffatMrs.Mennenkoop's?
Vancestaredatthebigwaveringscript,solikehisgrandmother'sungirtframe.
Forthe"Seekers"hecarednotafig;butthespringsofboyhoodwelledupin
himattheprospectofseeingMrs.Scrimser.Shewastheonlyhumanbeinghe
hadreallylovedinthedayswhenhisuniversewasenclosedinthefewmiles
between Euphoria and Crampton; the others, parents, sisters even, were just
themoreorlesscomfortablefurnitureoflife;buthisgrandmother'ssouland
his had touched. . . . He thought himself back onto the porch at Crampton,
smelt the neglected lilacs, heard the jangle of the Euphoria trolley, and his
grandmothersaying:"Don'tadaylikethismakeyoufeelasifyoucouldgetto
God right through that blue up there?" He remembered having answered,
ratherpetulantly,thathedidn'tfeelasifanythingwouldtakehimnearGod;
butnowhewasatleastnearertounderstandingwhatshehadmeant.Perhaps
what she called "God" was the same as what he called "The Mothers"--that
mysteriousSeaofBeingofwhichthedarkreachesswayedandrumouredin
his soul . . . perhaps one symbol was as good as another to figure the
imperceptiblepointwherethefleetinghumanconsciousnesstouchesInfinity..
..
Curious,thatthisshouldhappenjustashewasfacingtheideaofgoingbackto
Euphoria.Hisgrandmother'sletter, theprospectofseeingherina fewdays,
made the return home appear easier and more natural. As soon as she and
LauraLouhadmethewoulddecide....Hewassurethosetwowouldtakea
likingtoeachother.
Mrs.Scrimserbadehimcallherupatsixonthedaywhenshewastoarrive,
andhehoped topersuadehertocomedownthatverymorningtoseeLaura
Lou,whowasstilltoofeverishtoleaveherbed.LauraLouwasexcitedand
happyattheprospectofthevisit;hesawfromhereagerness
howmuchshehadfelttheenforcedsolitudeofherlifeinNewYork."Iguess
maybe she'll go round with me a little when I'm better," she said with her
drawnsmile.
"Why, I'd go round with you myself if you wanted me to," Vance rejoined,
withconscioushypocrisy;butshesaidevasively:"Why,howcanyou,withall
yourwork?"
The day came, and Vance was waiting at the office to call up Mrs.
Mennenkoop'sflatwhenhewastoldthatMrs.Spearwasonthetelephone.It
was some time since he had seen Mrs. Spear, and he wondered, somewhat
nervously, if she could be the bearer of a message from her daughter. The
bloodbegan to buzzinhisears, and hecouldhardly catch thewordswhich
tumbled out excitedly from the receiver. But presently, to his surprise, he
heard his grandmother's name. "Only think, Vance, of my not knowing that
Mrs.Scrimser--thegreatMrs.Scrimser--wasyourgrandmother!She'sjusttold
me so herself, over the telephone. . . . Why, yes--didn't you know? She's
comingtospeak in our drawing room this very evening. . . .Of course you
knew I was one of the 'Seekers'? No--you didn't?" Mrs. Spear was always
genuinely surprised when she found that anything concerning herself or her
family had not been trumpeted about by rumour. "Why, yes--it's my life,
Vance,myonlyreallife...somarvellous
...andnowI'mtohavetheprivilegeofhavingthiswonderfulbeingundermy
roof....Youmustbewithus,ofcourse;youandLauraLou....Your
grandmother wanted me to tell you not to go out to Bronxville: she'd rather
meetyouhere.Hertrainwaslate;there'sbarelytimeforhertotakearestand
withdrawintoherself--youknowtheyalwaysdo,beforeameeting....
So she wants you to come here early instead. She says she's sure you'll
understand...."
The announcement filled Vance with astonishment. He had had glimpses of
some of Mrs. Spear's hobbies and enthusiasms, and had heard others
humorously reported by Halo--but the idea of any connection between the
Spearmilieuandhisgrandmotherwassounexpectedthathebegantowonder
if,allunconsciously,hehadspenthisyouthwithanillustriouswoman.Mrs.
SpearwasintouchwiththenewestthatNewYorkwasthinkingandsaying;
Frenside'sdecomposingironywasherdailyfare;cleverandcultivatedpeople
of all kinds frequented her house; she was always on the track of the new
movements.Didthe"Seekers"then represent amovementimportant enough
toattract thosewhoselead shefollowed?And washisgrandmother actually
the prophetess of a new faith? He recalled the religion he had himself
"invented" in his boyhood--the creed whose originality had crumbled away
withhisfirstglimpseoftheold
philosophies--andwonderedifhisgrandmotherhadstumbledontherevelation
he had missed. It was all so confounding that he hardly found voice to
stammerouthisthanks,andhisexcusesforLauraLou....AndtheTarrants,
hewondered--wouldtheybethere?AndwhatdidHalothinkofthe"Seekers"?
Aboveall,whatwouldshethinkofMrs.Scrimser?
HehadnotwishedtoseeHaloagain--notforsometime,nottillthestormin
himshouldsubside. Hadshebeenrightwhenshehad warnedhimtheother
nightnotto"spoilsomethingperfect"?Inhisunsatisfiedanguish,hehadhalf
believed her; but in the interval he had come to know that this anguish was
worth all the rest. Friendship--love? How vain such restricting words now
seemed! In reality, his feeling for her included friendship, passion, love,
desire,whateverthoughtoremotion,cravingofsightandtouch,awomancan
excite in a man. All were merged in a rich deep communion; it was the
elementinwhicheverythingelseinhimlived."Allthoughts,allmotions,all
delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame--" the poet whom Elinor Lorburn
lovedhadsummedituplongago....
WhenhegottoMrs.Spear'sthemaidshowedhimintoalittlestudy.Theroom
was so small that it made his grandmother, who was waiting there, seem
immense,likeagreatspreadingidol.Butshemanagedtogettoherfeet;her
armsengulfedhim;hesankintoherwarmthasintoatepidsea.Ifhe'dbeena
child he would have burst out crying, she smelt so like home and the
MapledaleAvenuesoap!
"Oh, Vanny, Vanny--my little Vance . . . this is God's Hand," she said, and
huggedhim.
Hethought,withaquickrecoil:"Shewouldn'thavedraggedGodinthatway,
in old times--" and suddenly heard an emotional murmur at his back, and
becameawarethathisgrandmother,assheclaspedhim,hadseenMrs.Spear
entertheroom.
Vance'srecoilwasonlymomentary;yettheimpressionleftafaintsmirchon
the freshness of Mrs. Scrimser's spontaneity. She had become a prophetess
now,consciousofheraudience.
"DearMrs.Scrimser,you'llforgiveme?IfeltImustseethemeetingbetween
youtwo!"Mrs.Spearsighedoutwitheloquenteyesandahandaffectionately
extendedtoVance.
But already there were sounds of arrival in the hall; the sense of the little
apartmentbecomingmoreandmorepackedwithpeople;thedoorofthestudy
opening to admit Saidie Toler, straight and colourless as usual, and
accompanied by a large battered blonde, Mrs. Lotus Mennenkoop, who
declared emotionally that she must see Vance before the speaker took her
placeontheplatform....
Thetwolittledrawingroomshadbeenthrownintoone,andtheywerealready
crowded when Vance slipped in at the back. Before him, rank on rank, the
packed heads of the "Seekers" stretched up to an improvised platform, with
wax lights and a table covered with old brocade. Vance did not recognize
manypeople;mostofthosepresentseemedtobelongtootherregionsofMrs.
Spear'sramblingactivities.Buthewassuretheywererepresentativeoftheir
kind;Mrs.Spearwasnotthewomantohaveanythingbutthenewest,evenin
religion. This world of spiritual investigation was unfamiliar to him; there
were no "Seekers" in the Tarrant group, much less at the Cocoanut Tree or
RebeccaStram's.Theaudienceseemedmainlycomposedofelderlymenwith
beards and gold-rimmed glasses, pallid youths, and ladies of indeterminate
age, in black silk or Greek draperies. He was surprised to see among them
Mrs. Pulsifer, with Tarrant at her side, and in another part of the room the
sleek heads and jewelled arms of a cluster of smart young women who
belongedtotheTarrantset.Suchamixturewasunexpected,andstillmoreso
the earnest and attentive expression of the fashionable members of the
audience,whoappearedtohavecomeingoodfaith,andnottoscoff,ashehad
feared.
Vance forgot to wonder if Halo Tarrant were in the room; forgot everything
but his passionate curiosity to see what impression his grandmother would
make on an audience so strangely blent, and so new to her. Whoever they
were,heknewthe"Seekers"wouldtestMrs.Scrimserbystandardsotherand
moresearchingthanthoseofEuphoria,orevenofDakinandLakeshore;and
hisheartwasupinarmstodefendher.
And now here she was, in the soft illumination of the little platform. As he
gazedat heracross theferventbacksofthe "Seekers"she seemedtohim to
have grown still larger. Saidie Toler, seated at one elbow, looked like a
shadow,Mrs.Mennenkoop,attheother,likeashrivelledvirgin.Womanhood,
vastanddominant,billowedoutbetweenthem.
Mrs. Scrimser rose to her feet. Mrs. Lotus Mennenkoop had spoken a few
wordsofintroduction;phrasesabouta"newmessage,""ourspiritualleader,"
"theforemostexponentofthenewpsychicalethics,"haddriftedbyunheeded;
the"Seekers"wantedMrs.Scrimser.
Sheswayedtothemacrossthetableandbegan."MeetGod,"shesaid,spacing
her syllables impressively; then she paused. Her voice sounded richer, more
resonant than ever; but Vance's unaccustomed ear was shocked by her
intonation.Hadshealwayshadthosehideousdrawlinggutturals?
"MeetGod--that'swhatIwantallyoudearpeopleherewithmethisevening
todo...IpresumesomeofyouknowaboutGodalready;andallofyouat
least know of Him," she urged, caressing her italics. She paused again,
reachingouttowardheraudience."Thewayweknowaboutfolksinthenext
street."("NewYorkersdon't,"hergrandsonreflected.)"Orthewayweknow
offamouspeopleinthepast:greatheroesorsplendidnoble-heartedwomen.
That'snotthewayIwantyoutoknowaboutGod.IwantyoutoknowHim
Himself--togetacquaintedwithHim,thewayyouwouldifHewaslivingin
thehousenextdoor,andyousentroundtoborrowthelawnmower.Iwantyou
to get to know Him so well that you're always borrowing, and He's always
lending;sothatfinallyyoudon'thardlyknowwhatbelongstoyouandwhat
belongstoHim--andIguessmaybeHedon'teither.That'sthereasonIsayto
youall:MeetGod!Because,oh,youdearbelovedpeoplesittingherelistening
tome,I'vemetHim;andIknowwhatit'slike!"
Shestoodsilent,herfaceillumined,asVancehadseenitwhenshelookedup
to the sky from the porch at Crampton. She was certainly a beautiful old
woman,hethought;andhefeltthatthepeopleabouthimthoughtsotoo.But
what did they make of her exordium? They were silent; he felt that their
judgmentwassuspended.Buttherewasthehideousslurofherpronunciation,
blurringandsoilingeveryword....
Shewashurryingonnow,sweptalongonthefullfloodofrevelation,pleading
withthemtoseewhattoherwassoplain,sodivinelyvisible.Thepointwas,
sheargued,thatGodwasn'tjusthereorthere,inlecturehalls,inchurches,and
onthelipsofpreachers.Hewasn'tevenjustupinthesky,asholypeopleused
tothink.Theyknewnowthatthemarvellousstar-jewelledheavenswerejust
atoms,likealltherestoftheuniverse...allthosewonderfulstarsthatpeople
inoldtimesusedtobelievewerethecrownsoftheangels!They knewnow
thatGodwasamilliontimesgreaterandbiggerthanallthat,becauseHewas
inmen'ssouls;Hewasalwayscreating,butalsoHewasalwaysbeingcreated.
The quaint old idea of the Mass, of the priest turning bread into God, that
seemed to enlightened modern minds so ignorant and barbarous, had
somethinginitafter-all,ifyoulookedatitasthesymbolofthewonderfulfact
thatmanisalwayscreatingGod;thatwhereveragreatthoughtisborn,or a
nobleact
performed,thereGodiscreated.ThatistherealEucharist,therealremaking
ofDivinity.IfyouknewGod,youknewthat:youknewyouhadinyoursoul
thepowertomakeHim...thateveryoneofus,intheoldBiblephrase,may
be a priest after the Order of Melchizedek. . . . Talk of the equality of man
withman!Why,we'dgotwaypastthat.ThenewRevelationwasn'tgoingto
resttillithadtaughttheequalityofmanwithGod....
Buthow,shepressedon,wasthiswonderfulequality,thisGod-making,tobe
achieved?Why,inthesimplestwayintheworld:justbylovingenough.Love
wasChrist'slaw;andChristwasjustoneofthegreatGod-makers.Andwhat
shewantedofeverybodywastobelikeChrist:tobeChrist.Whattheworld
needed was Christs by the million--for the millions. What it needed was a
standardized God. No caste religions any more! No limited God for the
privileged and cultured, no priesthood, no preaching for rich pew-owners.
Why,youcouldallofyougohomenowandbeyourownChrist,andmake
yourownGod,justbythe simple recipe of loving enough. You didn't even
haveto...
ThefloodofwordspouredonandonoverVance'sbenthead.Hedidnotwant
tolookathernow:herpropheticgestures,herpersuasivesmiles,repelledhim.
Her intonations were unctuous, benedictory; she had become identified with
herapostolicrole.Behindtheswayingsurgingprophetesshestillfelttherich-
heartedwomaninwhosewarmthhischildhoodhadunfolded;itwasbitterto
him that the people about him would never know her as she really was. He
was already prepared to hate them for smiling at her rambling periods. He
couldhavesmiledatthemhimselfifhishearthadbeenlesssore;butnoone
else should do so. He looked about him suspiciously, trembling to detect
derision;buthesawonlyasomewhatblankexpectancy.Itwasallverywell,
the faces about him seemed to say; but they had heard that kind of thing
before. Something else must surely be coming. This inspired teacher was
going to tell them the secret they yearned for. But apparently there was no
other secret; nothing came but a crescendo of adjurations to love everybody
andeverything,tobealllove,allChrist-likeness,allGod-creativeness....
Mrs. Scrimser paused. The room was pervaded by the peculiar sense of
uncertaintyofanaudiencewhichhaslosttouchwiththespeaker.Thesilence
seemedtoask:Whatnext?Vanceknew.Thoughhehadneverbeforeheardhis
grandmotherspeakinpublichehadoftengonewithhertothemeetingswhich
she frequented in her incessant quest for new religious sensations, and he
knew the exact moment at which the orator's appeal, having reached its
culmination,helditselfreadyforanemotionalresponse.
It was the moment when here and there someone stood up and gasped out
devout ejaculations; when a hymn burst spontaneously from hundreds of
throats;whenthelistenersfellontheirkneesinaudibleprayer.
Nothingofallthishappened.Mrs.Scrimserstoodmotionless.Theweightof
her heavy body bearing on her outspread palms, as she rested them on the
tablebeforeher,shewatchedforthetideofemotiontorise.Itdidnotrise,but
the audience did. There was an uncomfortable lull, followed by a discreet
rustling of chairs. A "very beautiful," launched by Mrs. Spear from the
platform,driftedlanguidlydowntheroom.Averyfewofthemoredetermined
"Seekers"pressedbackagainstthetidetoMrs.Scrimser;theothers,somewhat
toohastily,pouredthroughthedoorsofthediningroomtowardtheglimpseof
abuffetsupper....AsVancepassedout,hecaughtsightofMr.Spear'salert
head between two retreating backs, and heard him say in his thin crackling
voice: "Isn't there some mistake about this? Seems to me I've met Mrs.
Scrimser'sGodbefore--andMrs.Scrimsertoo."
XXXVIII
ThenextmorningVancewentearlytoMrs.Mennenkoop's.Hewantedtosee
his grandmother before she began to be besieged by the prophets and seers
who had been such a trial to Mrs. Weston when the Scrimsers came to live
underherroof.Allnighthehadlainawake,tornbetweenhisdisillusionment
andhiswrathagainstthosewhohadsharedit....Thosedamnedunsatisfied
people who always had to have some new sensation to batten on! Why had
theydraggedhisgrandmotheroutofEuphoria,whereshebelonged,persuaded
herthatNewYorkwasinneedofher,thatshehada"message"forthem,as
her jargon called it? Such wrath as he had felt against the rich after Mrs.
Pulsifer's rebuff now blazed up in him against these ridiculous "Seekers"--
seekersofnewsensations,newcatchwords,newfadstotakeuportoturnto
ridicule!AtEuphoriaMrs.Scrimserhadherplaceinthesocialorder.Shewas
morepersuasivethantheministersoftherivalchurches,bettereducatedthan
their congregations. She had an authority which no one questioned--except
Mrs.Weston,whosawnosenseintellingpeoplehowtoruntheirliveswhen
youcouldn'tmanageyourownhiredgirl.
Here in New York everything was different--and Vance himself, in the
interval,had growndifferent. Theworldhad cometohave aperspectivefor
him,andEuphoriawasahardlyperceptibledotfaroffbetweentwonarrowing
lines. But in proportion as he understood this, and suffered for his
grandmother,histendernessforherincreased.Itbecamedefensiveandfierce;
he would have jumped at the chance of doing battle for her against all the
Frensides and Spears. After all, wasn't his own case precisely hers? He too
wastherawproductofaMiddle-Westerntown,tryingtodosomethingbeyond
his powers, to tell the world about things he wasn't really familiar with; his
pride winced at the exactness of the analogy, and it moved him to acuter
sympathy. If only he could persuade his grandmother to give up this crazy
crusade; to go back to Euphoria, and take him and Laura Lou with her! He
madeuphismind,onthewayouttoBronxville,thathewouldproposetoher
tobreakherlecturingengagementsandgobackatonce.
HisauntSaidieToler,whoreceivedhim,didnotsharehisapprehensions.She
said she had never seen her mother more inspired than on the previous
evening. Evidently New York audiences were less responsive at first than
thoseinthewesterncitieswhereMrs.Scrimserhadhithertospoken;butMrs.
Mennenkoop had prepared them for that. She thought quite a number of
convertswouldseekoutMrs.Scrimserinthecourseoftheday,andwassure
thatinBrooklyn,wherethatevening'smeetingwastobeheld,therewouldbe
moreofanemotionalsurrender....
Vance had always hated his aunt Saidie's jargon. She reminded him of a
salesman retailing goods, and repeating automatically what was on their
labels....Hewantedtoknowifhecouldn'tgoinandseehisgrandmother;
but Mrs. Toler said there was somebody with her on business: a man who
organized lecture tours. He wanted to take Mrs. Scrimser right through the
country,hesaid....He'danswerforitthatupstateshe'dgettheresponseshe
wasaccustomedto....InNewYorkitwasafashiontositbackandpretend
youkneweverything.
Vance'sheartsank.Heaskedifhecouldn'tgoinatonce,whilethemanwas
there--and at the same moment a door opened, and Mrs. Scrimser came out
intothehall."IthoughtIheardmyboy'svoice,"shesaid,comingtohimwith
openarms.Shebeggedhimtostepinandseethegentlemanwhohadcalled
aboutalecturetour--hehadmadeaveryinterestingproposal.Vancefollowed
her, andfoundhimself beingnamed toBuntyHayes, whoheldouthishand
withundiminishedcordiality."Why,yes,"hesaid,withanexplanatoryglance
betweengrandmotherandgrandson,"'Storecraft'aimstohandleallthehuman
interests.Wecan'tleaveoutreligion,any
more'nwecouldartorplumbing.AndtheminuteIheardaboutthisgrandnew
religious movement of Mrs. Scrimser's, I said: 'That's exactly our line of
goods,andthere's nobodybut"Storecraft"cando itjustice.'Ifonlyshe'dof
gotintouchwithmebeforeshecametoNewYorkI'dofhadheraddressing
threethousandhumanpeopleinSteinwayHallinsteadoftryingtogetakick
outofafewsocietyhighbrowsfromParkAvenue."
Vancestoodsilentbetweenthetwo.Hisgrandmotherlookedmoreagedinthe
morninglight. In spiteofherincreasing bulk she seemedsmaller:as if Fate
hadalreadytracedonher,indeeplinesandfolds,herfuturediminution.But
Bunty Hayes's flesh was taut and hard; he shone with a high varnish of
prosperity.AndhelookedatVancewitha bright unwinking cordiality, as if
their encounter were merely a happy incident in an old friendship. "On'y to
think she's your grandmother; seems as if you'd got a corner in celebrity in
yourfamily,"hesaid.
"Oh, Vanny's our real celebrity," Mrs. Scrimser murmured, her tired eyes
fillingastheyrestedonhergrandson.
"Well,Iguessthere'senoughofittogoround,"Hayesencouragedthemboth.
"WhatIsayis..."
Mrs. Scrimser's gaze was still caressing Vance. She took his hand. "I guess
he'llbelecturingallovertheUnitedStatesbeforelong,"shesaid.
"Well, when he does, 'Storecraft' 'll be all ready to handle him too--we'll
featureyoubothonthesameprogrum,"Mr.Hayesjokedback.
Mrs. Scrimser answered humorously that she guessed that would depend on
howwell"Storecraft"handledher;andhechallengedhertotakeagoodlook
roundandseeifanyotherconcernwaspreparedtodoitbetter.Itwasagreed
that she was to think over his proposition and give him an answer the next
day;andthereuponhetookhisleave.
Mrs. Scrimser, when they were alone, held her grandson fast for a minute
saying only: "Vanny boy, Mapledale Avenue's been like the grave since you
wentaway,"andhefeltthecontagionofhertendernessandagreatlongingto
layhiscaresinthosecapaciousarms.SheaskedaboutLauraLou,andwhy
Vancehadn'tbroughtherthenightbefore,ortoday;andwhenhesaidshewas
illinbed,exclaimedreproachfullyathisnottellinghersooner,andsaidshe
wouldgostraightdowntoMrs.Hubbard'safterlunch.Shebegantoquestion
Vanceabouthowtheylived,andwhetherLauraLouwascomfortableandwell
looked after, and if the food was nourishing, and he was satisfied with the
doctor;andgraduallyhewas
drawnintoconfessinghisfinancialdifficulties,andtheimpossibilityofgiving
his wife such a home as she ought to have. Mrs. Scrimser's ideas of money
wereevenvaguerthanhergrandson's,buthersympathywasthemoreardent
becauseshecouldnotunderstandwhyasuccessfulnovelist,whoknewallthe
publishers and critics in New York, shouldn't be making a big income. She
wasindignantatsuchinjustice;butsheimploredVancenottoworry,sincethe
"Storecraft"offerwouldenablehertohelphimandLauraLouassoonasshe'd
paid back what she owed his father. From her confused explanations Vance
gathered that Mr. Scrimser's long illness, and his widow's unlimited
hospitality, had been a heavy strain on Mr. Weston, who, besides having to
supporthisfamily-in-law,hadbeencrippledbyoneortwounluckygamblesin
real estate. Vance guessed that Mrs. Scrimser's attention had finally been
calledtothesefacts(nodoubtbyhismother),andthatinatardyrushofself-
reproachshehadresolvedtowipeoutherdebt.Itwasnotreligiouszealalone
whichhadstartedheronherlecturingtour.IntheWest,shetoldVance,she
had spoken without pay; but now that she understood her pecuniary
obligations she was impatient to make money by her lectures. No one was
morescrupulouslyanxiousnottobeaburdenonothers;thedifficultywasthat
forher,towhomnofellowcreaturecouldeverbeaburden,itwasaneffortto
rememberthatshemightbeoneherself.Vancewasmovedbythecandourand
humilityofheravowal.Hetooknewwhatitfeltliketobedraggeddownfrom
the empyrean just as the gates of light were swinging open; how happy it
wouldhavemadehimtorelievethisolddreamerofhercares,andleaveherto
pursuehervision! "Idaresaywhenshecame hereshethoughtI'dbeableto
help her out," he reflected bitterly, and regretted that he had mentioned his
owntroubles.ButMrs.Scrimser'soptimismwasirrepressible;alreadyshewas
planning,withtheproceedsofhertour,tohirealittlehouseinEuphoriaand
take Vance and Laura Lou to live with her. "Saidie Toler'll take all the
housekeepingbothersoffourhands,andyoucandoyourwriting,andI'llgo
onspeakinginpublicifGod'sgotanymoreuseforme;andinthegoodclean
prairieairLauraLou'llgetallthepoisonofNewYorkoutofherinnotime."
Her face was as radiant as if she were enumerating the foundations of the
HeavenlyCity.
"Don'tyouthinkyouandLauraLoucouldbehappy,makingyourhomewith
me?"shepleaded.
Yes,Vancesaid,hewassuretheycould;itwaslongsincehiseyeshadrested
on anything as soothing as the vision of that little house. "I'd have a big
kitchentable,sixfeetlong,formywriting,"hemusedvoluptuously;andthen
roused himself to his grandmother's summary of the "Storecraft" offer for a
threemonths'tour,forwhichshewastobefeaturedas:"God's
Confidant,Mrs.LoraineScrimser,"whowasto"telltheworldabouther
NewReligion."
"You see, Vanny, Saidie Toler's been all over the figures with him, and she
saysIoughttocleartwentyorthirtythousanddollars.Andperhapsthatwould
be only a beginning. . . ." Her face glowed with tenderness, and Vance,
tremblingalittle,tookherlargewarmhandandpresseditagainsthischeek.
"Why,Vandarling,don't--don'tcry!Youmustn't!Iguessyourtroublesareall
overnow."
Hesatsilent,holdingherhand.Howcouldhetellherwhatwasinhismind?
Perhapstheinertnessofhishandbetrayedthelackofresponseinhisthoughts;
for she questioned him with eyes softened by perplexity. "Maybe you don't
careforthewayhe'sfeaturedme?"shesuggestedtimidly."Iguessyoucould
find something more striking yourself--only I wouldn't want tobother you."
Heshookhishead,andshewenton,stillmoretimidly:"OrisitthewayIwas
receivedlastnightamongthosefashionablepeople?Don'tsupposeIdidn'tsee
it,Vanny;Iwasafailure;Iknowitaswellasyoudo.Mymessagedidn'tget
overtothem...itwasaterribledisappointmenttome.ButMrs.Mennenkoop
says that in that set they're dreadfully inexperienced in the spiritual life . . .
infantswailinginthedark.
..andthatmaybewhatIgavethemwastoostartling,toonew...."
"Oh,no,that'snotit,"Vanceinterruptedwithsuddenvehemence."Itwas
notnewtothem--that'sthetrouble."
"Notnew--?"Herhandbegantotrembleinhis,andshedrewbackalittle."Do
youmeantosay,Vanny,thateveryprofoundandpersonalspiritualadventure
isnotnew,isnotdifferent...?"
"No,it'snot.That'sthepoint.Lotsofpeoplehavethoughtthey'dhadspiritual
adventuresthatwerepersonaltothem,andthen, ifthey'vetakenthetime to
study,tolookintothereligiousexperiencesofthepast--"
"Butwhatdoesthepastmatter?WhatIbringisaforward-lookingfaith,anew
revelation--somethingGod'sgiventome."
"No,it'snot,"Vancerepeatedvehemently.Hefeltnowthathemustspeakout,
atwhatevercosttoherfeelingsandhis."Thosepeoplelastnightweremostly
well-educated, cultivated--some of the men were students of theology,
scholars.Theyweretherebecausetheytakeanintellectualinterestinreligious
ideas...."Hehurriedon,tryingtoexplainthat,tosuch
anaudience,therewasnonoveltyinwhatMrs.Scrimserhadtosay,thather
"revelation"belongedtoalong-classifiedcategoryofreligiousemotionalism.
People had thought for centuries that God had given them a particular
message, he went on. But supposing any direct access to the Divine to be
possible, it was one of the great services of the organized churches to have
maintained an authorized channel of communication between the Deity and
men,andnottorecognizeanyother.
"But, Vanny, that's the way the old tyrannical religions talked. All that's got
nothingtodowiththemodernworld.Whatpeoplewantnowadaysisanew
religion--"
Well,heinterruptedher,ifthatwasit,whatshecalledherreligionwasn'tnew;
ithadbeenintheairforcenturies;andanyhow,evenifithadbeennew,that
was no particular recommendation. The greatest proof of the validity of a
religionwasitsage,itsduration,itshavingstoodthroughcenturiesofchange,
as something that people had to have, couldn't in any age get on without.
Couldn'tshefeelthebeautyofcontinuityinthespiritualworld,whentheother
was being pulled down and rebuilt every morning? Couldn't she see that,
ninety-ninetimesoutofahundred,itwassheerignoranceandilliteracythat
madepeoplecallthingsnew--thateveninthebrick-and-mortarworldthatwas
being forever pulled down and rebuilt, the old materials and the old
conceptions had to be used again in the rebuilding? Who wanted a new
religion, anyhow, when the old one was there, so little exhausted or even
understood,inallitsage-longbeauty?
Hepressedon,sopossessedbyhissubjectthatthewordscameofthemselves,
as they had when he had poured out his soul to Halo Tarrant: all
unconsciously,hehadyieldedagaintotheboyishhopethathisgrandmother
wouldbeabletofollowhisreasoning.
Shelistenedwithbenthead,andthenliftedafacehumbledyetadmiring."Yes,
yes,Iseewhatyoumean,Vanny,"shebeganeagerly--andevenasshespoke
herememberedthatshehadalwayssaidthat,hadalwaysbelievedthatshesaw
whatpeoplemeant;butwhereasinhisboyhoodhehadretortedbrutally:"No,
youdon't!"nowheonlymumbled:"Oh,well,Idon'tknowthatitmattersso
muchaboutseeing...."
Her face lit up. "No; that's it. Feeling's everything, isn't it, dear?" "Well, I
didn'tmeanthat,either.Ionlymeant--"
Sheraisedhertiredeyesandfixedthemonhis."YoumeantthatI'dbetternot
tryanymoreofmytalksonyourcleverliteraryfriends?ButIdon't
intendto,Vanny;I'msureyou'reright.Mymessageisfortheplainfolkswho
want to be told how to get to God. . . . I know they'll come to me in their
hundreds. I don't mean to give up or lose courage because I can't reach the
hearts of a few super-cultivated intellectuals. . . . All that doesn't matter, as
longasIcanmakemoneyenoughforusalltoliveon--doesit?"
Vancegotupand bentover tokissher.Hecouldnottellherat themoment
that what he really wanted was to make her give up her lecturing tour
altogether.Theirtalkhadcarriedhimbacktotheolddayswhenshehadbeen
hisonlylistener,hadunderstoodhimwithherheartifnotwithhermind;he
could not bear, just then, to say anything that would bring the anxious
humbled look into her eyes. He must be off, he explained, he had to hurry
downtotheoffice;buthepromisedtobewaitingforherwhenshecalledafter
lunchtoseeLauraLou.
Heknewitwasonlyapostponement:hehadalreadydecidedthathecouldnot
live on his grandmother's earnings. Everything in his life seemed a
postponement nowadays: morally as well as materially he was living from
handtomouth.Buthisintelligencestillrefusedtobowtoexpediency;itwas
impossibleforhimtothinkoflivingonthemoneywhichMrs.Scrimser'sown
ignorancewaspreparedtoextractfromthatofothers.Hislonghoursofstudy
and meditation at the Willows had made any kind of intellectual imposture
seemthelowestformofdishonesty.
His grandmother's hour with Laura Lou nearly undermined his resolution.
Seeingthemthus--LauraLouinoneofherstrangemomentsofloveliness,her
headrestingcontentedlyagainstthepillows,herwillinghandyieldedtoMrs.
Scrimser's, and the latter settled in the rocking chair by the bed, her great
person giving out an aura of good-humour and reassurance--it seemed to
Vance that nothing mattered except that these two should understand each
other. If only the conditions had been reversed, and he had been able to
provideahomeforhisgrandmother!Hesawallhisdifficultiessolved;Laura
Lou soothed and sustained, the housekeeping somehow managed, and he
himselfwithafreecornerinwhichtogoonundisturbedwithhiswork....
This was precisely what Mrs. Scrimser and "Storecraft" were offering him;
andtheironyofthecontrastburntitselfintohim.Hemadeuphismindtosee
that very day the publisher who had made him such tempting proposals.
Perhaps there was still some hope of readjustment with the New Hour and
DreckandSaltzer.
On the way downstairs Mrs. Scrimser laid her hand on his arm. "Is there
anywherethatIcanspeaktoyouforaminutealone,Vanny?"
Hepushedopentheparlourdoorandfounditsdesertspacesuntenanted.Mrs.
Scrimser seated herself on one of the antimacassared sofas and drew him
downbesideher. Shelookedathimtenderly,andbeforeshespokeheknew
whatshewasgoingtosay."YouthinkLauraLoulookssick?"hebrokeout.
"Shewasalittleexcitedatseeingyou--Iguessitsenthertemperatureup.But
she'sallright,really...."
"Who looks after her when you're at the office?" his grandmother asked.
"Well--thehiredgirlgoesupeverynowandthen.AndMrs.Hubbard--
that'sourlandlady--hasbeenverynicetoher...untiljustlately...."
"Justlately?"
Hereddened."Well,I'vebeenbehindhandaboutpaying--Isupposethat'sthe
reason."
"Vanny,youmusttakethatchildawayfromhere."
Hegave animpatientlaugh."Takeher away?Whereto?Tobeginwith,she
wouldn'tgoanywherewithoutme...."
She looked at him gravely. "You must go with her then. Young eyes don't
recognizesicknessthewayoldonesdo....No,dear,Idon'twanttofrighten
you; she'll get well; she just wants nursing and feeding--and comforting, I
guess. Isn't she fretting about you and your affairs? Maybe thinking she's a
burdentoyou?Poorchild--Ithoughtso....Well,Vanny,allthat'sgottostop.
It must stop!" She stood up with sudden resolution. "I'll send for that
'Storecraft'man--Icouldseetheywereanxioustogetme;hewasfairlyscared
thatI'dfallintothehandsofanothermanager.I'llseehimtonight,Vanny;I'll
getagoodbigadvanceoutofhim....SaidieToler'llmanagethatforme...
you'llsee!"
She stood beaming on him with such ample reassurance that his resolution
wavered.Wasn'tsheright,afterall?Whatbusinesswasitofhisif(inperfect
goodfaith,hewassure)shechosetosellherhazyrhetorictoaudiencesmore
ignorantthanherself?Afterall,itwasprobablethatherteachingcoulddoonly
good . . . why try it by standards of intellectual integrity that none of her
hearerswouldthinkofapplying?Hewasfrightenedbyhertoneinspeakingof
LauraLou;heknewthat,unlesshecouldraisealittlemoneyatonce,heand
hiswifecouldnotstayonatMrs.
Hubbard's;andtohisgrandmother'squestionastowhereheintendedtotake
LauraLouhecouldfindnoanswer.
"Seehere,Vanny,don'tyoulooksodiscouraged.You'llsee,I'llpullitoffin
thebigtownsupstate.Andthen--"
"No, no," he broke out uncontrollably. "You don't understand me; you must
listen.I can't takeyourmoney--no matter howmuchof it youmake.Iwant
youto give up lecturing;togiveit up at once.Iwantyou to go backhome
now--tomorrow. Don't you see, Granny, we can't either of us live on money
thatisn'thonestlygot?"
Mrs.Scrimserstoodlisteningwithafaceofgentlebewilderment.Hefeltthe
uselessnessofhiswords;noargumentofthatsortcouldpenetratethroughthe
closearmourofherconviction.Underhergenuinepersonalhumilitytherewas
aspiritualpride,thesenseofa"call,"ofthedirectmandateoftheUnseen.The
word "honestly" had not even caught her attention, and she evidently
attributedVance'sscruplestotheprideofayoungmanunwillingtobehelped
outofmoneydifficultiesbyanoldwoman.Hedidnotknowwhattosaynext;
and for a minute or two they stood and faced each other in an embarrassed
silence. Then he saw a tremor cross her face, followed by a look of painful
enlightenment.
"Vanny," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "perhaps, as you say, I
haven't understood what you meant. But you've got to tell me. Is it because
you'reafraidI'llhurtyourreputation--afoolisholdwomangoingabouttelling
peopleaboutthingsshedoesn'thalfunderstand?Iknowthat'sthewayitstruck
youandyourfashionablefriendslastnight--andmaybeyoudon'twantthemto
goroundsaying:'Who'deverhavethoughtthatoldevangelistwomanwithher
Salvation Army talk was Vance Weston's grandmother--the novelist's
grandmother?'"Shepaused,andlethereyesrestonhis."Thatit,Vanny?You
seeI'mnotsostupid,afterall."Shesmiledalittle,anddrewhimcloser."If
youdofeelthat,sonny,IguessI'llhavetogiveupafterall."
Vancecouldfindnoreply.Thewordschokedinhisthroat."It'snotthat--how
couldyou...?"hemumbled,answeringherembrace.Shegropedinabigsilk
bag,drewoutacrumpledhandkerchief,andwipedherspectacles.Whenshe
hadputthemback,sheplungedagainintothedeeperrecessesofherreticule,
andfinallyproducedahundred-dollarbill.Shesmootheditoutandpressedit
intohergrandson'shand."No,it'snotforyou--it'sforLauraLou.Andyoucan
let her take it, Vanny"--a whimsical twinkle crept into her eyes--"because I
didn'tearnadollarofitlecturing.Imadeeverycent
bakinggingerbreadforcharitysaleslastwinter--andseehere,Vanny,it'stwice
theworkitiscoaxingfolksbacktoJesus...."
XXXIX
VancehadnotseenLewisTarrantforalongtime.Tarrantwasattheofficeless
often than formerly; the practical administration of the New Hour was
entrustedtoEricRauch,whoranitaccordingtohisownideassavewhenhis
chief, unexpectedly turning up, upset existing arrangements and substituted
new plans of his own. This state of things did not escape the notice of the
smallstaff.ItwasrumouredthatTarrantwaslosinginterest--thenagainthat
he was absorbed in the writing of a novel; it was agreed that, in any case,
something was wrong with his nerves. Handling Tarrant had always been a
gingerlybusiness;Rauchwastheonlymansuppleenoughtorestorehisgood-
humour without yielding to him; and even Rauch (as he told Vance) never
knewbeforehandwhetherhewasgoingtopullitoffornot."Thetroubleis,
he'sgotenoughideastorunadozenreviews;andhewantstoapplythemall
tothisonepoorrag."Theresultwasthattheragwasdrooping;andassoonas
anenterprisegavetheleastsignoffailureitwasTarrant'sinstincttodisclaim
allresponsibilityforit.
His frequent absences had been a relief to Vance. When the two did meet,
thoughusuallyitwasonlytoexchangeafewwords,Vancefeltunhappyinthe
other'spresence.To any one less simplehearted it might have been easier to
despisethehusbandofthewomanheworshippedthantobeonfriendlyterms
withhim;buthisopinionofTarrantaddedtoVance'sgeneraldistressofmind.
ItmadehimutterlywretchedtothinkofHaloTarrant'slifebeingspentwitha
manforwhomshemustfeelthesamecontemptthatTarrantexcitedinhim;
andsincehislasttalkwithher--sinceshehadutteredthat"Iwon'ttakealover
while I have a husband" which still filled him with its poignant music--his
feeling for her husband had hardened to hatred. His own grievance against
Tarrantplayedlittlepartinthis, exceptinsofarasitshowed himthekindof
manshewaschainedto;buthewonderedbitterlyhowshecouldconsiderthe
tiebinding.Inhisowncaseitwasdifferent;hewasboundtoLauraLoubyher
helplessnessandhisownfolly,andthebondseemedtohimsosacredthathe
hadatonceacknowledgedtheforceofHalo'sargument.Heknewhecouldnot
abandon
hiswifeforthewomanheloved;heownedtheimpossibilityandbowedtoit.
ButHalo'scasewasdifferent.Tarrantwasnotanobjectofpity;andwhatother
feelingcouldholdhertohim?
Itwasastrangeanddesperatecoil,butoneonwhichhisimmediatedomestic
problemlefthimnotimetobrood.Hewasstilldeterminedtodoallhecould
to prevent his grandmother from continuing her lecturing tour; even if he
couldnotprevailwithher,andshedidcontinueit,hewasdeterminedthathis
wifeandhe should not live on her earnings. Whatever the alternative might
be--andallseemedhopeless--thatresolvewasfixedinhim.
Assoonashisgrandmotherhadgonehedecidedtolookupthepublisherwho
had made him such urgent proposals. He carried the hundred dollars up to
LauraLou,andlethisheartbewarmedforaninstantbyhercryofsurprise,
andtheassurancethatshe'dneverseenanybodyaslovelyashisgrandmother;
thenhehurriedoffonhiserrand.Butatthedoorheranintoamessengerfrom
theNewHour,withalinefromRauchsayingthatTarrantwishedtoseehim
about something important. "Better come along as quick as you can," a
postscriptadded;andVanceunwillinglyturnedtowardtheoffice.
Hehadnotrealizedtillthatmomenthowdeeplydistastefulitwouldbetohim
to see Tarrant again. He had no time to wonder what the object of the
summons might be; the mere physical reluctance to stand in the man's
presenceovercameallconjecture,filledhimtothethroatwithdisgustatbeing
athisorders."That'sgottoendtoo,"hethought--andthenitoccurredtohim
that the Mr. Lambart's negotiations might have been successful, and that
Tarrant,asconsciousashimselfofthefrictionbetweenthem,haddecidedto
givehimhisrelease.
This carried him to the office on lighter feet, and he entered the editorial
retreat with a feeling almost of reassurance. It would be hateful, being near
Tarrant,seeinghim,hearinghim--buttheordealwoulddoubtlesssoonbeover.
Tarrantlookedupquicklyfromhisdesk:itwasoneofthedayswhenhisface
was like a perfectly symmetrical but shuttered housefront. "Sit down," he
sighed;andthen:"Lookhere,Weston,I'mafraidyou'llhavetomovetosome
placewhereIcanreachyoubytelephone.It'sthedevilandalltryingtogetat
you;andyourhoursattheofficearesoirregular--"
Vance'sheartsank.Thatdryevenvoicewasevenmoredetestabletolistento
thanhehadexpected.HehardlyknewwhichpartofTarrant'schallenge
toanswerfirst;butfinallyhesaid,ineffectively:"Icanworkbetterawayfrom
theoffice."Thiswasnottrue,forhedidmostofhiswritingthere;buthewas
toobewilderedtorememberit.
Tarrantsmileddrily."Well,thatremainstobeseen.It'ssolongsinceanyof
yourscripthasbeenvisibleherethatI'venomeansofknowinghowmuchof
thenewbookyou'veturnedout."
Vance'sbloodwasup."Idon'tunderstand.ItwaswithyourconsentthatI
droppedthemonthlyarticlestogiveallmytimetomynovel--"
"Oh, just so," Tarrant interrupted suavely. "And I presume you've got along
withitfairlywell,asIunderstandyou'vebeennegotiatingprivatelytosellitto
Lambart."
"It was Lambart who came to me. He offered to fix it up with Dreck and
Saltzer. The price I had contracted for with them is so much below what I
understandIhavearighttoexpectthatIcouldn'taffordtorefuse."
"Refusewhat?Areyouundertheimpressionthatyoucansellthesamebook
twiceover,totwodifferentpublishers?Yousignedacontractsometimeago
with Dreck and Saltzer for all your literary output for four years-- and that
contracthasovertwoyearsmoretorun.DreckandSaltzerhaveaskedmefor
anexplanationbecauseitwasthroughmethattheNewHourwasabletoput
youinthewayofsecuringapublisher.They'renotusedtothiswayofdoing
business;neitheramI,Iconfess."
Vancewassilent.Thebloodwasbeatingangrilyinhistemples;but,putthus
baldly,hecouldnotbutfeelthathisactionseemedunderhand,ifnotactually
dishonourable.OfcourseheoughtnottohaveconcealedfromTarrantandhis
publishersthathehadauthorizedLambarttonegotiateforhim.Hesawclearly
that what he had done was open to misconstruction; but his personal
antagonismtowardTarrantrobbedhimofhisself-control."ThepriceIwasto
getfromDreckandSaltzerwasn'talivingwage--"
Tarrantleanedbackinhischair,anddrummedonthedeskwithlongimpatient
fingers.Hishandswerebloodlessbutdelicatelymuscular:heworeadarkred
sealringonhisleftfourthfinger.Withthosefingershehadpushedbackhis
wife's hair from the temples, where Vance had so often watched the pulses
beat...hadtracedthelittleblueveinsthatnettedthem.
...Vance'seyeswereblurredwithrage.
"Why did you sign the contract if you weren't satisfied with it?" Tarrant
continued,inhiscarefullyrestrainedvoice.Itwasevidentthathewasvery
angry, but that the crude expression of his wrath would have given him no
more pleasure than an unskilful stroke gives a good tennis player. His very
quietnessincreasedVance'ssenseofinferiority.
"IsignedbecauseIwasabeginner,becauseIhadto...."
Tarrant paused and stretched his hand toward a cigarette. "Well, you're a
beginnerstill...you've got to remember that.. . . YoumissedthePulsifer
Prizeforyourshortstory:forthatblunderyou'llagreewe'renotresponsible;
butitdidusalotmoreharmthanitdidyou.Wewerecountingontheprizeto
giveyouaboost,tomakeyouamorevaluableasset,asitwere.Andtherewas
everyreasontothinkyouwouldhavegotitifyouhadn'ttriedtoextractthe
moneyoutofMrs.Pulsiferinadvance."Vancecrimsoned,andstammeredout:
"Oh,seehere--";butTarrantignoredtheinterruption."Afterthatyoudropped
doingthemonthlyarticlesyou'dcontractedtosupplyuswith,inordertohave
moretimeforthisnewnovel.Inshort,asfarastheNewHourisconcerned,
eversincetheserialpublicationofInsteadcametoanendwe'vebeen,soto
speak,keepingyouasaluxury."Hepaused,litthecigarette,andprofferedthe
box to Vance, who waved it impatiently aside. "Oh, you understand; we
accepted the situation willingly. It has always been our policy to make
allowancesfortheartistictemperament--togiveourcontributorsafreehand.
But we rather expect a square deal in return. If any of our authors are
dissatisfied we prefer to hear of it from themselves; and so do Dreck and
Saltzer.Wedon'tcaretofindoutfromoutsidersthatthebookspromisedtous-
-andof whichtheserial rightsare partlypaidin advance--arebeinghawked
about in other publishers' offices without our knowledge. That sort of thing
doesnogoodtoanauthor--andalotofharmtous."Heendedhisstatement
withaslightcough,andpausedforVance'sanswer.
Vancewastremblingwithangerandmortification.HeknewthatTarranthad
madeoutacaseforhimself,andyetthatwhateverwronghe,Vance,haddone
in the matter, came out of the initial wrong perpetrated against him by his
editor and publisher. But he could not find words in which to put all this
consecutivelyandconvincingly.Theallusiontohisattempttoborrowmoney
from Mrs. Pulsifer, the discovery of her having betrayed the fact, were so
sickeningthathehardlynoticedTarrant'scynicalavowalthat,butforthis,they
couldhavecaptured theprizeforhim.Hisheadwas whirlingwithconfused
arguments,buthehadsenseenoughlefttoreflect:"Imustn'tletgoofmyself..
..Imusttryandlookascoolashedoes...."
Finallyhesaid:"YousayyouandDreckandSaltzerwantto befairtoyour
authors. Well, the contract you advised me to make with them wasn't a fair
one.Insteadwasasuccess,andthey'vewriggledoutofpayingtheroyalties
they'dagreedononthegroundthatthey'velostmoneyonthebookbecause
it'snotafull-lengthnovel."
"Butdidn'tyourcontractwiththemspecifythatthescaleofroyaltiesthatyou
acceptedappliedonlytoafull-lengthnovel?"
"Well, Isupposeit did. IguessI didn't readitvery carefully. But theymust
havemadealotmoremoneyonInsteadthantheyexpected."
Tarrantleanedbackinhischairandlaidhisfingertipstogether,withthegently
argumentative air of one who reasons with the unreasonable. "My dear
Weston,"hebegan;andVancewincedattheapostrophe.Allauthors,Tarrant
went on--young authors, that is--thought there was nothing easier than to
decideexactlyhowmuchmoneytheireditorsandpublishersweremakingout
ofthem.Andtheyalwaysworkedouttheaccounttotheirowndisadvantage--
naturally.Inrealityitwasn'tassimpleasthat,andeditorsandpublishersoften
stood to lose the very sums the authors accused them of raking in. A book
mighthavealotoffussmadeaboutitinasmallcircle--Insteadwasjustsucha
case--andyetyou couldn'tgetthebigpublictobuyit.Andunluckilyitwas
onlythefavourof thebig publicthat madea bookpay.Asamatteroffact,
InsteadwasalosstoDreckandSaltzer.IfWestonwouldwriteanotherbook
justlikeit,butoftheproperlength,verylikelythey'dmakeuptheirdeficiton
that; a highbrow success on a first book often helped the sales of the next,
provideditwastherightlength.DreckandSaltzerknewthis,andthoughthey
wereactuallyoutofpockettheywerereadytohaveanothertry....Publishing
wasjustonelonggamble....Andperhapsitwasn'tunfairtoremindWeston
that,bothtotheNewHourandtoDreckandSaltzer,he'dsofarbeen,fromthe
businesspointofview,ratheraheavyloadtocarry....
Vance had controlled himself by a violent effort of the will; but at this
summing-upofthecasehebrokeout."Well,IdaresayIhave--butwhynotlet
meoffourcontract,ifit'sbeenasmuchofadisappointmenttoyouastome?"
Tarrant's slow blood rose to his cheeks. "I'm curious to know why you
consideryourselfdisappointed."
"Why, for the reasons I've told you. My articles haven't been a success--I
know that as well as you. But my book has, and under our agreement it's
broughtmenomorethanifithadbeenafailure.Ican'tlive,andkeepmywife
alive,onthesalaryyougiveme,andifyou'llletmeoffIcanearnthreetimes
themoneytomorrow."
Tarrantwas silent. He began to drum again on the desk, andthedullred of
anger still coloured his pale skin. "My dear fellow, you've had plenty of
opportunities to complain to me of our contract, and it never seems to have
occurred to you to do so till that pirate Lambart came along. Even then, if
you'dcomestraighttomeandstatedyourcasefrankly,Idon'tsay...ButI'm
notinthehabitoflettingmycontributorsbebribedawaybehindmyback,and
neitherareDreckandSaltzer.Yousignedacontractwithus,andthatcontract
holds."
"Whydoyouwantittohold?"
Tarrantcontinuedhisnervousdrumming."That'sourownbusiness."
"Well,ifyouwon'tanswer,I'llanswerforyou.It'sbecauseI'vegivenyouone
successata bargain,and you feel you may miss anotherifyousetme free.
Anditpaysyoutohangontomeonthatchance."
Tarrant's lips moved slowly before his answer became audible. "Yes--I
supposethat'stheviewcertainpeoplemighttake....It'sonethatdoesn'tenter
intoourwayofdoingbusiness.Besides,beforeknowingwhetherthechance
youspeakofwasworthgamblingon,asyouassert,Ishouldhavehadtosee
the book you're at work on now; it doesn't always happen that beginners
followupafirstsuccesswithasecond.Rathertheotherwayround."
"Thenwhywon'tyouletmego?"
Tarrant,insteadofreplying,litanothercigarette,puffedatitforamoment,and
thensaid:"Bytheway,isyourmanuscripthere?"
"Yes."
"Ishouldliketohavealookatit...onlyforanhourortwo.SofarI
haven'tmuchideaofwhatit'sabout."
Vancepulledthemanuscriptoutofhispocket."Ifyoudon'tlikeit,willyoulet
meoff?"herepeateddoggedly.
"No,certainlynot.Ishallaskyoutomakeanefforttogiveussomethingmore
satisfactory,asIhaveeveryrightto."
There was another pause. The air between the two men seemed to Vance to
becomesuddenlyrarefied,asifnothingintervenedtodeflecttheswiftcurrents
oftheirantagonism.
"You won'tlike it,"Vanceinsisted withwhite lips."Idaresay not.No doubt
you'veseentothat."
The sneer struck Vance like a blow. He felt powerless with wrath and
humiliation.
"It'snouseyourreadingitanyhow,"heexclaimed,nolongerknowingwhathe
wassaying.Heleanedacrossthedesk,snatchedupthepages,andtorethemto
bitsbeforeTarrant'sastonishedeyes.Hecouldnotstoptearing--itseemedasif
thebitswould neverbesmallenoughtoensurethe completeannihilationof
hiswork.
HewasconsciousthatTarrant,afterthefirstshockofsurprise,waswatching
himwitha sort of cold disgust; and also that, when the work of destruction
wasover,theirrelativesituationswouldbeexactlywhattheyhadbeenbefore.
But this cool appreciation of the case was far below the surface of his
emotions.Hecouldnotresist the sombre physical satisfaction of destroying
underthatman'seyeswhathehadmade....
Thelastscrapdroppedtothefloor,andTarrantsaidquietly:"I'mafraidnow
you'llhavetosendroundandgetthecopyyouhaveathome."
"I'venoothercopy,"Vanceretorted.
"That's a pity. You've given yourself a lot of unnecessary work--and I'm
damned if I see why. What's the sense of having to begin the thing all over
again?"
"Ishallneverbeginitoveragain."
"Well,ifyouweren'tsatisfiedwithit,orthoughtitwouldn'tsuitourpurpose,I
daresayyou'reright.ButinthatcaseI'llhavetoaskyoutobuckledownand
turnoutsomethingelseintheshortestpossibletime.We'vebeenagoodmany
monthsnowwithoutgettinganyreturnforourmoney...."
"Ishallneverwriteanythingforyouagain,"saidVanceslowly.
Tarrantdidnotspeakforamomentortwo.Hiscolourhadfadedtoitsusual
ivory-likesallowness,andthe furrow deepened between his ironically lifted
eyebrows.Hehadtheimmenseadvantageoverhisantagonistthatangermade
himcoldinsteadofhot.
"Never?You'dbetterthinkthatover,hadn'tyou?Youunderstand,ofcourse,
thatyournotwritingforuswon'tsetyoufreetowriteforanybodyelsetillthe
fouryearsareover."
Vance looked at him with something of the other's own chill contempt. His
wrathhaddropped;hefeltonlyimmeasurablyrepelled.
"Youmean,then,"hesaid,"thatevenifIdon'twriteanotherlineforyouyou'll
holdontome?"
"I'mafraidyou'veleftmenoalternative,"Tarrantansweredcoldly.Herangthe
bell on his desk, and said to the office boy who appeared: "Clear up those
papers,willyou?"
InthestreetVancedrewalongbreath.Hedidnotknowwhatwouldhappen
next--couldnotseeafractionofaninchintothefuture.Butindestroyingthe
firstchaptersofLoothefeltasifhehadtorntheclawsofanincubusoutofhis
flesh. He had no idea that he had hated the book so much--or was it only
Tarranthewashatingwhenhethoughtofit?Heflungon,flushed,defiant.He
feltlike a balloonist who hasthrownoutall his ballast: extraordinarilylight
andirresponsible,heboundeduptowardthezenith....
Asheturnedthecornerofhisstreethecameuponapedlarbeatinghishorse.
HorseswererarenowadaysinNewYorkstreets,pedlarsalmostobsolete;but
in this forgotten district both were still occasionally to be seen. . . . Vance
stoppedandlookedattheloadandthehorse.Theloadwasnotveryheavy:the
horse was thin but not incapable of effort. He was not struggling against an
overload,butsimplybalking,thrustinghisshabbyforelegsobstinatelyagainst
theasphalt.Unknowntohisdriver,somethingwasoffendingortorturinghim
somewhere--hehadtheliftedlipandwild-rollingeyeofahorseinpicturesof
battlefields. And the human fool stood there stupidly belabouring him. . . .
Vance'sangerleaptup."Here,youdamnedfool,letthathorsealone,willyou.
..."
The man, astonished and then furious, cursed back copiously in Italian and
struckthehorseagain."Ah,that'sit,isit?"Vanceshouted.Hecaughttheman
by the arm, and remembering his Dante, cried out joyously: "Lasciate ogni
speranza!"ashefellonhim.Thetusslewasbrief.Hestruckthewhipoutof
thepedlar'shand,punchedhimintheface,andthen,seeingthe
loafers assembling, and a policeman in the distance, suddenly remembered
thatitwasTarranthehadbeenthrashing,andshamefacedlydartedawaydown
thestreettotheshelterofMrs.Hubbard'sdoor.
XL
It was one of Tarrant's accomplishments to be able to go imperturbably
throughascenewherehisadvantagedependedonhiskeepinghistemper;but
itwasoneofhisweaknessestocollapseafterward,hisovertaxedself-control
abandoninghimtowomanishtremors,damphands,andbrittlenerves.
When he turned up that evening, his wife knew at once that he was in the
throes of one of these reactions. Something had gone wrong again at the
office. Of late, on such occasions, he had taken to seeking comfort in the
society of Mrs. Pulsifer. Halo knew this and was faintly amused. She knew
alsothathewaslosinginterestintheNewHourbecauseithadnotsucceeded
ashehadhoped,andthathehadbeguntowriteanovel--probablyunderMrs.
Pulsifer'sinspiration. An important Pulsifer PrizeforFirstNovels was to be
addedtotheonealreadyestablishedfortheBestShortStory;anditwaslike
Tarrant,towhomthemoneywasutterlyindifferent,tobetemptedtocompete
for the sake of publicity. His restless vanity could never find sufficient
pasturage, and as the years passed without the name of Lewis Tarrant
becomingahouseholdwordontwocontinents(orevenfiguringintheEnglish
Who'sWho),hiswifenoticedthathisappetiteforpraisegrewcoarser.
All this Halo marked with the lucid second sight of married experience. As
long as she had continued to be fond of her husband she had seen him
incompletelyandconfusedly;butundertheXrayofher settled indifference
every muscle and articulation had become visible. At times she was almost
frightenedbytheaccuracywithwhichshecouldcalculatethemovementsof
hismindandplotouthisinevitable course of action. Because really she no
longer cared to do so. . . . She would have been glad enough to impart the
unneeded gift to Mrs. Pulsifer; and one day when Mrs. Spear, after various
tentative approaches, had put a maternal arm about her and asked ever so
gently:"Darling,hasitneveroccurredtoyou
thatLewis is being seenaboutrather too much withJetPulsifer?" Halo had
burstintohystericallaughter,andcaughtherbewilderedparenttoherbosom..
..
Butno.Therewasnoescapethatway.Lewisstillneededher,andsheknewit.
Mrs.Pulsiferministeredtohisthirstingegotism,butHalomanagedhislifefor
him,andthatwasevenmoreimportant.Someday,perhaps...Butsheshook
offtheinsinuatingvision.Pennybypenny,hourbyhour,shewasstillpaying
back the debt she had assumed when she found out that, all through his
courtship,herfamilyhadbeensecretlyandshamelesslyborrowingfromhim.
And since then the debt had gone on increasing much faster than she could
possiblyreduceit.ThecomforthehadgiventoMr.andMrs.Spearsincehe
had become their son-in-law, the peace and security assured to them by his
lavish allowance--how many years of wifely devotion and fidelity would it
taketowipeoutsuchascore?
Musing fruitlessly on these things she sat alone, waiting for her husband to
join her and go in to dinner. She had refused several invitations for that
evening,thinkingthatLewiswouldprobablydineout(ashedidnowadayson
mostnights),andhopingratherabsurdlythatVanceWestonmightcomeinand
seeher....
The poor boy must have calmed down by this time; it would be safe to see
him;andshewaseagertohearmoreofthenovel.Hersympathywithhim,she
toldherselfagainandagain,wasallintellectual;shewaspassionatelyinlove
withhismind.Itwasapitythathehadnotunderstoodthis;hadtriedtomixup
"theotherthing"withtheirintellectualardours.Andyet--no,certainly,shedid
notwanthimtomakelovetoher;butwoulditnothavemortifiedhertobe
treatedforeverlikeadisembodiedintelligence?Shehadtoconfesstoherself
thatshecouldnotwishundonethatfoolishsceneoftheotherevening...that
the incident in it she most obstinately remembered was his despairing boy's
cry:"Iwanttokissyou...."
Oh,butwhatfolly!Ofcourse,ifshewasreallytohelphimwithhiswork,all
thoseotherideasmustbeputasideandforgotten.Andshedidsowanttohelp
him;itwashergreatestlonging,theneedofherblood.Thethoughtofitfed
herlonelyhours,filledheremptylife--ornearly filled it. And she hopedhe
wouldfeelthesamelonging,thesameurgentnecessity,andwouldcomeback
tohersoon for more companionship, more encouragement. . . . Perhaps she
hadnotencouragedhimenough,thatlastevening,abouthiswork,thatis.It
was well to remember that authors, even the least fatuous and the most
intelligent of them, were nervous, irritable, self-conscious: the slightest
unfavourablecriticismflayedthemalive.In
that respect certainly (she smiled) Tarrant seemed qualified to join the
brotherhood.ButpoorVance'ssensitivenesswasofadifferentkind,theresult
of inexperience and humility. Under it she always felt an inarticulate
awarenessofhispowers;hisdoubts,shewassure,concernedonlyhisaptitude
forgivingthosepowersfullexpression.Shecouldalmostpicturehim,insome
gloriousphaseoffutureachievement,flingingdownhispentocryoutlikea
greatpredecessor:"MyGod,butthisisgenius--!"
She was thus softly pondering, in a mood of moral beatitude, when Tarrant
turnedupwithhis usualnervous: "I'mnot late,amI?Well, putoffdinnera
fewminutes,willyou?"Andnowherehewasagain,freshfromhisdressing
room, brushed, glossy, physically renovated, but nervously on edge and
obviouslyinneedofconsolation....Goodbyetohermoralbeatitude!
SincetheironequarrelaboutVanceWeston--thequarrelwhichhadresultedin
Halo's deciding not to accompany her husband to Europe--the young man's
namehadseldomfiguredintheirtalk.TheunexpectedsuccessofInsteadhad
beenbalmtoTarrant'seditorialvanity,andHalohadnotsuspectedthatthere
hadbeenasubsequentdifferencebetweenthetwomentilltheevening,afew
monthspreviously,whenVancehadtoldherofhisaskingTarranttoraisehis
salaryorannultheircontract.Shehadsufferedbitterlyonhearingofthis,but
shehadsufferedinsilence.ShecouldnotgiveVancetheclandestinehelpshe
wouldhavewishedto;shehadneithermoneyofherown,normeansofraising
any.Andsheknewitwouldonlyinjurehimifshebetrayedhisconfessionand
appealedtoherhusband'sgenerosity.Tarranthadnogenerosityofthatkind;
hewouldsimplyhavesaid:"Isupposehe'sbeentryingtoborrowofyounow,
after failing to pull it off with Mrs. Pulsifer"; and if he had said that she
thoughtshewouldhavegotupandwalkedoutofhishouse--forever.
No;thatwasnotthewaytohelpVance.Heronlyinterventiononhisbehalf
hadbeenafailure.Allshecoulddowastoholdhertongue,anddowhatshe
couldtocontributetothesuccessofhisnewbook.Itflatteredher(farmore
thansheknew)tofeelthatinthatwayshereallycouldbeofusetohim.Tobe
hisMuse,hisinspiration--thentherereallywassomemeaninginthestaleold
image!SheknewshehadhadarealshareinthemakingofInstead,andshe
worethesecretknowledgelikeajewel....
"Well?--"shequestionedherhusband,whentheyhadreturnedto the library
after dinner. She knew it was necessary for his digestion (an uncertain
function)thatheshouldunburdenhimselfofthegrievanceshereadinevery
lookandintonation.Andsometimes,whensherenderedhim
thisservice,she feltasimpersonalasa sicknursesmoothingoutafractious
invalid.
Tarrantgavehisshortretrospectivelaugh--likethescratchofamatchthrowing
backabriefflareonhisgrievance."Oh,it'sonlyyourprotégéagain--"
She felt a little shiver of apprehension. Usually a cool harmony reigned
betweenTarrantandherself.Sincethedayofhergreatoutburst,whenshehad
refused to accompany him to Europe, she had carefully avoided anything
approaching a disagreement. She had learned her lesson that day; and futile
wrangles were humiliating to her. But whenever Vance Weston's name was
pronounced between them the air seemed to become electric. Was it her
husband's fault or hers? She was always on the alert to defend Vance, she
hardlyknewfromwhat.Orwasitherselfshewasdefending...
?
"Whatprotégé?"sheaskedcarelessly.
"I didn't know you had more than one. Weston, of course--yes, he's been
treatingmetoanotherofhisscenes.Really,thefellow'snothousebroken.And
asneaktoo...can'trunstraight...."
"Lewis!"
"Dirty sneak. He's after more money, as usual, and he's been trying to get
LambarttobuyhisbookfromDreckandSaltzerwithoutfirstconsultingme.
Buy up our double contract with him . . . behind my back! But women can
neverseetheenormityofthesethings...."
Hepaused,andstirredhiscoffeeangrily."Idaresayyouseenothinginit,"he
challengedher.
Halo'shearthadsubsidedtoamoreregularmeasure.Itwasnotwhatshehad
feared.. .shewasashamedtothinkhow much!Sheassuredherselfhastily
thatherfearshadbeenforVance,andnotforherself.Ifhehadlosthishead
andbetrayedhisfeelingforhertoherhusbanditwouldhavemeantruinfor
him.SheknewthedeadlypatienceofTarrant'sretaliations.
"Ofcourse,"Tarrantcontinued,"thingsaren'tdonethatwaybetweenmen.But
thefactis Iknowonlyonewoman whohasaman'ssensitivenessinmoney
matters"--hepaused--"andthatis JetPulsifer. ..." Hebroughtthe nameout
withatouchofdefiancewhichamusedhiswife.
"Oh,yes,"shemurmured,withincreasingrelief."Youdon'tseeanythinginit
yourself?"heinsisted.
"IseewhatIalwayshave--thatyourcontract'snotfairtoVance;I'vetoldyou
sobefore."
"That'sneitherherenorthere--"
"Surely it's very much here, if the poor boy's in want of money." "Ah, he's
beenwhiningtoyouagainaboutmoney,hashe?"
She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. She remembered the
uselessnessofherpreviousinterventioninVance'sbehalf,andwonderedagain
bywhatcuriouscoincidenceit happened that his name always brought to a
climaxthelatenttensionbetweenherselfandTarrant.
"Lookhere,Halo--IcanseeyoustillthinkI'vetreatedhimbadly."
"Ithinkyou'vetreatedhim--indifferently.Whatyoucallbusinessisessentially
anaffairofindifference,isn'tit?It'sdesignedtoexcludetheemotions."
"DoyouwantmetobeemotionalaboutWeston?"
"Iwantyoutobegenerous,Lewis--asyouknowhowtobe...."Shepausedto
letthistakeeffect."He'syoungandunhappyandbewildered.Perhapshedid
make a mistake in going to Lambart about his book without telling you."
(Tarrantsnorted.)"Butsurelyyoucanaffordtooverlookthat.He'sgiventhe
NewHouronegoodbook--andIbelievehe'sgoingtogiveyouanother.This
lastnovelisaveryfinething--"
Tarrant shifted his position slightly, and looked at his wife. "Ah--so you've
readit,then?"hesaid,asuddenjealousedgeinhisvoice.
"Thefirstchapters--yes."
"Well, there are no more first chapters--or last ones, either." He saw her
startledmovement,andlaughed."WhenIrefusedtolettheyounggentleman
offhisbargainhetoreupthemanuscriptbeforemyeyesandsaidhe'dnever
write another line for any of us. Good old-fashioned melodrama, eh?" He
waited,and then added with a touch of flatness: "He swore he had no other
copy--butIwouldn'ttrusthimaboutthat."
Halosatspeechless.Thescenehadevidentlybeenmoreviolentthanshehad
imagined. She knew Tarrant's faculty for provoking violent scenes--his cool
incisivenesscuttingintothesoullikeawhite-hotbladeintoflesh.Thepound
offleshnearesttheheart--thatwaswhathealwaysexacted.Andsheknewtoo
that Vance had spoken the truth: to her also he had said that he had no
duplicateofthosefirstchapters.Hestillkepttohisboyishhabitofscribbling
thepageswithhisownhand,andusuallydidnottroubletotypethemouttill
thebookhewasdoingwaswelladvanced.Themechanicallabourofcopying
hisownworkwashatefultohim,andhehadneverbeenabletopayforhaving
itdone.InthefirstmonthsLauraLouhadtriedtoactasamanuensis;butshe
foundhiswritinghardtodecipher,herspellingdrovehimfrantic,andshehad
nearlydestroyedhisRemington.Sinceherillnesstherehadbeennoquestion
of her continuing to render these doubtful services. The doctor said that
stooping over was bad for her, and the manuscripts piled themselves up
uncopied,inspiteofHalo'sfrequentprotests.Why,shethought,hadshenot
insistedontypinghisworkforhimherself?Butitwastoolatenow;shecould
onlytrytoswallowbacktheuselesstears.
"Well,whatdoyouthinkofthat?"Tarrantinsisted.Italwaysannoyedhimto
havehisclimaxesfall flat, and he behaved like a conscientious actor whose
carelesspartnerhadmissedthecue."Youdon'tseemtohaveheardwhatI've
beensaying,"heinsisted.
"Oh,yes.AndI'msorry--dreadfullysorry."
"Well, that's not much use." She saw that he was reaching the moment of
reaction.It wasthemomentwhen,after hehadproduced hiseffect,brought
outandairedhisgrievance,histautnervesgaveway, and he secretly asked
himselfwhattodonext,likeanaughtychildafteratantrum.Thehouralways
camewhenhehadtopayfortheirresistibleenjoymentofmakingsomebody
angryandunhappy,andtherewassomethingatonceludicrousinhissurprise
whenitarrived,andslightlypitifulinhisdistress."Thesethingstakeitoutof
me,"hesaid,anddrewhishandkerchiefacrosshisdampforehead.
Usually Halo had some murmur of reassurance ready; but on this occasion
nonecame.Vancehaddestroyedhismanuscript--thosepagesinwhichshehad
indeedfoundthingstocriticise,butsomuchmoretopraise!Sheremembered
now only what was admirable in them, and felt helplessly indignant at the
crueltywhichhaddrivenhimtosuchanact.
"Thefactis,I'mnotusedtotreatingwithpeopleof thatkind,"Tarrantwent
on,withrisingself-pity.
"No--you'renot!"sheretorted,carriedawaybysuddenindignation."It'syour
onlyexcuse,"sheaddedironically.
Hestoppedshort,andlookedatherwiththeinjuredeyesofachildwhohad
expectedcompassionandgetsaboxontheear.
"You'vedestroyedafinething--agreatthing,perhaps.It'sanactofvandalism,
asmuchasslashingapictureorbreakingastatue--thingspeoplegetarrested
for,"shecontinuedrecklessly.
"I--I?Destroyed--?But,Halo,youhaven'tevenbeenlistening.YouthinkI
toreupthemanuscript?Itwasthatdamnedfoolwho--"
"Yes, becauseyou hurthim,wounded hisprideas anartist. Youdon't know
whatitistorespectotherpeople'swork,thecreationoftheirsouls....You
don'tknowanythingaboutanything,unlessithappenstoyourself!"
Shesawthebeadsofperspirationcomeoutagainonhisforehead,andwhile
hefeltforhishandkerchiefsheknewhewasanxiouslyaskinghimselfhowhe
wastogothroughanotherpainfuldiscussionsosoonafterthepreviousone.
Usuallyherequiredtwenty-fourhourstorecoverafterhehadgivensomebody
hell--and here was his own wife, who knew better than anyone else how
sensitivehewas,howheavilyhehadtopayforeverynervousstrain,andwho
wasruthlesslyforcinghimintoasecondscenebeforehehadrecoveredfrom
thefirst!
ButHalofeltnopity.Thesightofherhusband'sdiscomfitureonlyexasperated
her.Oftenandoftenshehadhelpedhimbacktoself-esteemafteroneofhis
collapses;todosowasalmostasnecessarytoherprideastohis,aslongas
theywere to go onlivingtogether. But she wasfarpastsuch considerations
now,andpushed onwithoutheeding."You've destroyed something rare . . .
somethingbeautiful...."Shecouldonlyuselesslygooverthesamewords.
SuddenlyTarrant'sfacebecameattentive."Youthoughtaswellofthebookas
allthat?"
"Ithoughtgreatthingsofit--"Theonlythingthatrelievedherindignationwas
to rub into him the value of what he had lost. He should at least feel it
commercially,iftherewasnootherwayofmakinghimsuffer.
Hewaslookingatherrathershamefacedly."Really,youmighthavedroppeda
hintofallthisbefore...."
"Ireadthechaptersonlyalittlewhileago;andVancedidn'twantmetoform
anopiniontillhe'dgotonfurther,ortosayanythingaboutit."
"Sayinganythingaboutithardlyappliestotellingme--yourhusband,andhis
editor."
"I'venodoubthewouldhaveshownittoyouifyou'daskedhim."
"Ididaskhim,justnow;andhisanswerwastotearthethingup."Therewasa
longpause,duringwhichthetwoopponentsrestedratherhelplesslyontheir
resentment.Halowasstilltooangrytospeak,andherhusband,sheknew,was
beginningtoaskhimselfifhehadmadeamistake--ifthereweretimeswhen
eventhesatisfactionofbullyingsomeonewhodependedononehadbetterbe
foregone.He saidsullenly: "Afterall, itonly meanstheloss ofthe timeit'll
take him to rewrite the thing. I don't believe there were more than sixty
pages."
"Creativewriterscan'trewritethemselves.Itwouldbementaltortureifthey
could...andtheycan't."
"Oh,well,we'llsee."
"Doyoumeantosayhetoldyouhe'dtry?"
"Lord,no.Onthecontrary.Hesaidhe'dneverwriteanotherlineforus....
Butofcoursehewill--he'llhaveto.Hebelongstothereviewforanothertwo
years,asIremindedhim."
Halo pondered. At length she said, in a quieter tone: "You can't make him
writeifhedoesn'tchooseto."
"Icanthreatenhimwithalawsuit.""Oh,Lewis--"
"Well, what about it? Here's a fellow who's destroyed something beautiful--
pricelessly beautiful. You tell me artists can't do the same thing twice over.
Well,thatmakesitunique.Andthatuniquethingthathe'sdestroyedbelonged
tome--belongedtotheNewHour,andtoDreckandSaltzer.AsItoldhim,it
waspartlypaidforalready--andhow'shegoingtomakeituptousnow,Iask
you?Icouldseetheyoungasshadnevereventhoughtofthat."
Halo suddenly felt ashamed of her own impotent anger. She could have
renderedVancenoworseservicethanbyharpingtoherhusbandonhis
blunder.ForthesakeofsatisfyingaburstoftemperasuselessasTarrant'sshe
had risked what little hope there was of bringing him around to a kindlier
view.Butitwasalmostimpossibleforhertobeadroitandpatientwhenshe
dealtwithanythingneartoherheart.Thengenerosityandfranknesswereher
onlyweapons--andtheywereaboutasavailingasbowsandarrowsagainsta
machine-gun.Atlengthshesaid:"IcanunderstandDreckandSaltzertaking
thisstand--Isuppose,fromabusinesspointofview,it'sallright.Butwithyou
it'ssodifferent,isn'tit?Fellowartistssurelyoughttolookatthequestionfrom
thesameangle.Vanceisterriblypoor...hiswifeisill...insomerespects
his collaboration hasn't been of much use to the review, and I should think
you'dbeglad,iftheNewHourcan'taffordtoraisehispay,tolethimoffhis
bargain,andgetDreckandSaltzertodothesame.Whatharmcanitdoeither
ofyou? And atanyrate you'll havegivenhim thechanceof trying hisluck
elsewhere....Idaresayhewasstupid,andevenrude,inhistalkwithyou--
he'sgotnotact,noclevernessofthatkind--butyou,who'vegotallthesocial
experiencehelacks,yououghttobegenerous...youcanaffordtobe...."
Herlipsweresoparchedthatshehadtostop.Togoontalkinglikethatwas
like chewing sawdust. And when she paused she understood in a flash the
extentofhermiscalculation.Itistooeasytothinkthatvainpeoplearealways
stupid--andthiswasthemistakeshehadmade.Yetsheoughttohaveknown
thatherhusband,thoughhewasvain,wasnotstupid...oratleastnotalways
so;andthatflatteryadministeredatthewrongtimewillnotdeceiveeventhose
whomostthirstforit.Tarrantstoodupandlookeddownonherwithafaintly
ironicsmile.
"Whatyoureallythink," he said, "is that I'm a fool--but I'm not quite as an
egregious one as all that. I leave that superiority to your young friend.
Besides," he added, "I ought not to forget that you've never understood
anythingabout business. It was the onlygiftyour fairy godmothers left out.
I'm awfully obliged for your advice; but really, in matters of this kind, you
mustleavemetodealwithourcontributorsmyself...."
BOOKVII
XLI
ThesummerlightlaysorightlyonthelawnandtreesoftheWillowsthatHalo
Tarrantunderstoodmoreclearlythaneverbeforethespelltheplacehadcast
onVanceWeston.
She had gone there to take a look, for the first time in months. The present
owner,theoldandinfirmMissLorburn,satinherhouseinStuyvesantSquare
and fretted about her inability to keep an eye on the place; she always said
whatapityitwasthatpoorTomhadn'tleftittopoorHaloinsteadoftoher.
MissLorburn'sworldwaspeopledwithfriendsandrelativeswhoseemedto
herbestdescribedbytheepithet"poor";whatwithonethingoranother,she
thoughtthemallobjectsofpity.Itwasonlyofherself,old,heavy,withblurred
eyes, joints knotted by rheumatism, legs bloated by varicose veins, and her
goodearbeginningtogo,thatsheneverspokewithcompassion.Shemerely
saiditwasapitypoorHalowouldhavetowaitsolongfortheWillows...not
thatitwouldbemuchusetothepoorchildwhenshedidgetit,ifthevalueof
propertyatPaul'sLandingcontinuedtodeclineatitspresentrate.
SinceMrs.Tracy'sdepartureforCaliforniatheWillows,forthefirsttime,had
beenentrustedtohandsunconnectedwithitspast,andasMissLorburnfeared
the new caretakers might not treat poor Elinor's possessions with proper
reverenceitbehovedHalotoseethateverythingwasinorder.
Asshewalked alongthedriveshewasassailedby memoriessoremotethat
shefeltlikeanoldwoman--asoldastheElinorLorburnoftheportraitabove
themantelorthepurblindcrippleinStuyvesantSquare."IalmostwonderI'm
notoncrutches,"shemused;soheavilydidtheweightofthepasthangonher
feetandhermind.
Theplaceworeitsoldlookofhavingwaitedtherequietlyforher,withasort
of brooding certainty of her return--not changing, not impatient, not
discouraged, but just standing there, house, turf, and trees, the house yearly
losing more of its paint, the wistaria adding more clusters to the thousands
mercifullyveilingtheanglesandbracketsithadbeenmeanttoadorn.Asshe
looked about her she understood for the first time how, in what seemed the
grotesquenessofdiscardedfashion,Vance's impatient genius had caught the
poetryofthepast.Forhimtheplacehadsymbolizedcontinuity,
that great nutritive element of which no one had ever told him, of which
neither Art nor Nature had been able to speak to him, since nothing in his
traininghadpreparedhimfortheirteaching.Yet,blindpuppy,gropingembryo
as he was, he had plunged instantly into that underlying deep when the
Willowshadgivenhimaglimpseofit.
Halohadpurposelyavoidedthenewcaretakers'day.Shewantedtheplaceto
herself;therewereghostsofherowntherenow....Shefeltherwayinamong
the familiar obscurities. That looming darkness on her right was the high
Venetian cabinet in the hall; this spectral conclave on which a pale starlight
twinkled down was the group of shrouded armchairs in confabulation under
theprismsofthedrawingroomchandelier.Capriciousrays,slantingthrough
the shutters, seemed to pick out particular objects for her attention, like
searchlights groping for landmarks over a night landscape. She fancied the
inanimatethingsassistedinthesearch,beckoningtothelight,andwhispering:
Here,here!intheirwistfulstrivingforreanimation.Therewasnoamountof
psychic sensibility one could not read into the walls and furniture of an old
emptyhouse....
Herownyouthwasiniteverywhere,hanginginfadedshreds likethe worn
silkofthecurtains--heryouth,alreadyfar-offandfaded,thoughshewasnow
only twenty-eight! As she stood in the library she recalled her first meeting
withVanceWeston--howshehadstrolledinononeofherperfunctoryvisits
andsurprisedanunknownyouthinElinorLorburn'sarmchair,hishairswept
backuntidilyfromabroodingforehead,hiseyesbentonabook;andhow,at
herapproach,hehadliftedthoseeyes,withoutsurpriseorembarrassment,but
withadeepinwardlookshewasalwaystoremember,andhadaskedeagerly:
"Whowrotethis?"HowlikeVance!Itwasalwayssowithhim.Notimefor
preambles--always dashing straight to the vital matter, whether it were the
authorshipof"KublaKhan,"orthedesperatelongingtokissher....Sheshut
hereyesamoment,andlistenedtothatcry:"Youdon'tunderstand--Iwantto
kissyou!"Hethoughtshedidn'tunderstand--somuchthebetter....
Inthoseearlydays,forallhermaternalairswithhim,shehadbeenasyoung,
asinexperiencedashewas.Sheknewagooddealaboutartandliterature,but
next to nothing about life, though she thought herself a past mistress in its
management.Herfamiliaritywithpecuniarymakeshifts,withtheevasionsand
plausibilities of people muddling along on insufficient means, bluffing,
borrowing,dodgingtheircreditors, entertaining celebrities and neglecting to
pay the milkman and the butcher-- all these expedients had given her a
precocious competence which she mistook for experience. They had also
calledforthanaturalardourfor
probity and fair dealing which she must have inherited from one of the
straitlacedoldLorburnsonthepanelledwallsatEaglewood.Sidebysidewith
it burned an equally fierce ardour for living--for the beauty of the visible
world,itssunrisesandmoonbirths,andtheglorieswithwhichman'slabours
haveembellishedit.Neverwasagirlmoreinlovewiththewholeadventure
ofliving,andlessequippedtoholdherowninit,thantheHaloSpearwhohad
comeuponVanceWestonthatafternoon.
Inloveinthehumanwaytoo?Yes,thatshehadbeenequallyreadyfor--only
itseemedbesetwithdifficulties.Herswasoneoftheundifferentiatednatures
whichaskthatallthefacultiesshallshareinitsadventures;shemustlovewith
eyes,ears,soul,imagination--mustfeeleverysenseandthoughtimpregnated
together. And either the young men who pleased her eye chilled her
imagination, or else the responsive intelligences were inadequately housed.
Shewantedacompanionontheflamingramparts;andNewYorkhadsofar
failedtofindherone.
Lewis Tarrant came the nearest. He was agreeable to look at; she liked his
loungingheight,thesharpthinnessanddelicatebonystructureofhisface,and
she was impressed by the critical aloofness of mind, which unbent only for
her.Herwaveringimpulsessoughtinhimarectitudeonwhichshecouldlean.
Hehadarealloveofbooks,acalmcultivatedinterestinart;hismindwaslike
achillymoonlitreflectionofherown.Shenearlylovedhim-
-butnotquite.Andthen,justasshehaddecidedthathecouldneverwalkthe
rampartswithher,camethediscoverythatherfamily,certainofthemarriage,
hadacceptedoneortwodiscreetloans--andthefinalshockoflearningthatit
was Lewis who had found the missing Americana from the Willows and
boughtthembackintimetoavertascandal....
Well,whatofallthat?Hadn'tshealwaysknownwhatherfamilywerelike-
-longsincesuspectedtheworstofherbrother?Whyhadshenotwashedher
handsofthemandgoneherownwayinthemodernmanner?Shecouldnot;
partly from pride, but much more from attachment, from a sort of grateful
tenderness. She had been happy, after all, in that muddling happy- go-lucky
household. Her parents had a gipsylike charm, and they were always
affectionate and responsive. The life of the mind, even the life of the spirit,
hadbeenenthusiasticallycultivatedinspiteofminormoralshortcomings.If
shelovedpoetry,ifsheknewmorethanmostgirlsabouthistoryandart,about
all the accumulated wonders peopling her eager intelligence, she owed it to
dailyintercoursewithmindslikeherown,tothepoetryeveningsbythefireat
Eaglewood, when Mrs. Spear would rush out to placate an aggrieved
tradesman,andcomebackunperturbedto"TheGardenofProserpine"or"The
EveofSt.Agnes";tothosethrifty
wanderingsinEurope,whentheyvegetatedincheapItalianpensionsorlived
on sunshine and olives through a long winter at Malaga, but wherever they
went,itwasalwayshandinhandwithbeauty.
Desertsuchparentsintheirextremity?Itwasunthinkabletoagirlwholoved
their romantic responsiveness as much as she raged against their incurable
dishonesty.LewisTarranthadbeenimmenselygenerous--wasshegoingtolet
herselfbeoutdonebyhim?Someday--ifsheinheritedtheWillows,andalittle
of Cousin Tom's money--she might be able to pay him back, and start fair
again.Butmeanwhile,whatcouldshedobutmarryhim?Andatthethought
of his generosity she began to glow with tenderness, and to mistake her
tendernessforlove.Onthistidalwaveofdelusion--andafterthenewsthather
cousinTomhaddisinheritedher--shewassweptintothedullbackwaterofher
marriage....
She had not seen Vance since the destruction of the manuscript. After a
sleepless night--a night of dry misery and crazy unreal plans--she had
telegraphedhim:"Haveyougonemad?Istherereallynoothercopy?Come
thiseveningafternine.Imustseeyou."Thedaydraggedby.Shedidnotsee
Tarrantagainbeforehedepartedfortheoffice.Shehadnothingfurthertosay
tohim,andwasafraidofmakinganotherblunderifthesubjectofVancecame
up. If she had not foolishly reproached her husband for destroying a
masterpiecehemighthavebeengladtoletVanceoffhisbargain--butnowshe
knew he would exact his pound of flesh. In what form? she wondered. She
wasnotclearaboutthelegalaspectsofthecase,butsheknewTarrantwould
movecautiouslyandmakecertainofhisrightsinadvance.Themeaningless
hourscrawledon.HerhusbandwasdiningatMrs.Pulsifer's--abigaffairfor
someforeigncriticwhohadbeenimportedtoreceiveauniversitydegree.She
wassureofhereveningalonewithVance.Butthehourspassed,theevening
came,andhedidnotcomewithit,andhesentnomessage.Shesatwaitingfor
himtillaftermidnight;thensheheardtheclickofherhusband'slatchkeyand
hurriedawaytoherroomtoavoidmeetinghim.Whenshelookedatherselfin
the glass as she undressed she saw a ravaged face and eyes swollen with
crying.Shehadweptunconsciouslyasshesattherealoneandwaited.
ThenextdayandthenextVancemadenosign;itwasnotuntilthethirdthata
note came. "I am going away from New York. My wife is sick, and we are
moving out to the country. I couldn't come the other night. There isn't any
othercopy;butthenyounevercaredforitmuch,andIguessIcandobetter.
Vance."
Notawordoftendernessorofregret.Butthephraseshadthedesperateringof
thebrokenwordshehadjerkedoutthateveninginthelibrary.It
wasneverhiswaytowastewordsovertheirremediable.And,asfarasheand
shewereconcerned,shesawnowthatthecasewasirremediable.Howcould
shehaveaskedhimtocomebacktoherhouse?Thebreachwithherhusband
madethatimpossible.And nowhewasgoingawayfromNewYork, he did
noteventellherwhere.Itwasalluseless,hopeless--whatevershemighthave
beentohim,ordoneforhim,thetimewaspast,theopportunitymissed....
AfterwaitingadayortwoshehadsentforFrenside,andtoldhimasmuchof
thestoryasconcernedhershareinVance'swork,andtheintellectualsideof
theirfriendship.Whenshecametothedestructionofthemanuscript,andto
herhusband'sattitudeinthematter,Frenside,whohadlistenedmusinglyover
hispipe,gaveashortlaugh."Well,mydear,youhavemadeamessofit!"She
was too much humiliated to protest. "But what can I do now?" she merely
asked,andwasnotunpreparedforthe"Nothing!"heflungback.
"Oh,Frenny,butImust--"
Heshruggedherprotestaway."Andyouknow,"hewenton,"it'snotsucha
badthingforayoungnovelistwithademoralizingsuccessbehindhimtotear
upamanuscriptortwo.Chancesaretheywouldn'thavebeenmuchgood--just
thebackwashoftheother.He'sdonetherightthingtogooffintothecountry
andtackleanewjobinnewsurroundings--withoutevenyoutoadvisehim."
Shewinced,butFrenside'ssarcasmwasalwayssalutary."Buthecan'tafford
towait,"shesaid."He'sstarving--andwiththatpoorlittleillwife.HowcanI
persuadeLewistolethimoffhisbargain?Hisonlyhopeistogetanadvance
fromLambartonhisunwrittenbook,sothathecangooffandworkquietly,
withoutthisdreadfulanxietyaboutmoney.ButIcan'tmakeLewisfeelasIdo
aboutit...."
Frensidecontemplatedhis pipeinsilence."Tarrant'swritinganovelhimself,
isn'the?Whatabout--?"
Shefelt a littleshockofapprehension. "Oh, I don'tknow. He'ssosecretive.
He'sneveraskedmetolookatit,andIdon'tdaresuggest..."
Frensidelookedathershrewdly."Dare--suggest--insist.Gethimtoletyousee
whathe'sdone;tellhimit'sadarnedsightbetterthananyofWeston'sstuff.If
he can be got to believe that--and you ought to know how to make him--he
maystopbotheringaboutWeston."
She remained silent while Frenside got up to go. "Look here, my child; get
himtoreadhisbooktoyou,andtrytothinkit'samasterpiece.Perhapsitis."
But seek as she would she could find no answering pleasantry. She sat
helpless,benumbed,whileheroldfriendemptiedhispipe,pusheditintohis
pocket,andreachedoutforhisstick.Butashegottothedoorshestartedup
andbrokeout,withalittlesob:"AllthehelpIwantedtogivehimhasturned
toharm.Oh,Frenny,howamIgoingtobearit?"Frensidelimpedbacktoher
andlaidhishandforamomentonhershoulder.Thenhetookoffhisglassesto
giveheronedeeplook."Bravely,"hesaid,andturnedtogo.
Allthathadhappenedthreemonthsago;andshewasgladnowthatshehad
said what she had to Frenside, and also that he had guessed what she left
unsaid. It made her world less lonely to think of that solitary spark of
understandingburninginanothermindlikealittlelightinanisolatedhouse.
Butthatwastheonlyhelphehadbeenabletogive.Asfarasshecouldbring
herselftodoso,shefollowedhisadvicewithrespecttoTarrant.Butthough
sherefrainedfromallfurtherreferencetoVance,andbehavedtoherhusband
as though the bitter scene between them had never happened, she found it
impossibletoquestionhimabouthiswork.Whenshetriedtodosoherthroat
grew dry, and every phrase she thought of sounded false and hollow. Some
premonitiontoldherthathisnovelwouldbeanamateurishperformance,and
thatifitwereshewouldnotbeabletoconcealherrealopinionofit.Fordays
she tried to think of a method of approaching the subject, of flattering his
hypersensitiveneedofpraisewithoutrunningthesubsequentriskofwounding
it;butshefoundnoway."Iknowhecan'twriteagoodnovel--andifit'sbad
he'llfindoutatoncethatIthinkitis....WhathewantsisanaudiencelikeJet
Pulsifer...."Shesmiledalittleatthepictureoftheirtworavenousvanities
pressing reciprocal praises on each other; yet even now it wounded her to
thinkthatthemanshehadchosenwasperhapsreallymadeforMrs.Pulsifer..
..
XLII
Justoutsidethecottagewindowanapplebranchcrossedthepane.Foralong
time Vance had sat there, seeing neither it nor anything else, in the kind of
bodilyandspiritualblindnesslatelyfrequentwithhim;andnow
suddenly,intheteemingautumnsunlight,therethebranchwas,thecentreof
hisvision.
Itwasawarpedunsightlybranchonaneglectedtree,butsochargedwithlife,
soglitteringwithfruit,thatitlookedlikeadeadsticksetwithrubies.Thesky
behindwasofthedensestautumnalblue,asolidfactofasky.Againstitthe
shrunkenrustyleaveslaylikegiltbronze,eachfruitcarvedinsomehardrare
substance. It might have been the very Golden Bough he had been reading
aboutinoneofthebookshehadcarriedoffwhenheandLauraLouleftNew
York.
WhateverhappenedtoVanceontheplaneofpracticalliving,inthemuddled
worldwherebillsmustbepaid,foodprovided,sickorhelplesspeoplelooked
after,therestillcametohimthismuteswingingwideofthesecretdoors.He
neverknewwhenorhowitwouldhappen:itsometimesseemedthathewas
nomorethanthelatchwhichanunseenhandraisedtothrowopenthegatesof
Heaven....
Andherehewas,inside!Nomerelatch,afterall,buttheverykingforwhom
thegateshad beenliftedup... .Itwasutterlyimprobable, inexplicable,yet
thedeepestpartofhimalwaystookitforgranted,andtroublednomoreover
thehowandwhythanachildletlooseinanunknowngarden.Intruthitwas
the only human experience that was perfectly intelligible to him, though he
wassopowerlesstoaccountforit..
..
Asusualwithhimnow,thesuddenseeingoftheapplebranchcoincidedwith
theintenselydetailedinnervisionofanewbook.Intheearlydaysthatflashof
mysteriouslightusedtoblotouteverythingelse;butwiththegrowingmastery
of his craft he noticed, on the contrary, that when the gates swung open the
illuminationfellonhisdailyforegroundaswellasontheheavenlydistances.
Mental confusion ceased for him from the moment when the inner lucidity
declared itself, and this sense of developing power gave him a feeling of
security,ofaninviolablecalmintheheartofturmoil.
...
ThequarrelwithTarranthadendedvaguely,lamely,asbusinessdisputesmost
oftendo.Vancewasbeginningtounderstandthatonlyintellectualdifferences,
battleswaged intheabstract forabsoluteends, canhaveheroic conclusions.
Thetearing-upofhismanuscripthadbeentheresultofapassionateimpulse,
but it had neither bettered his situation nor made it appreciably worse. Eric
RauchtoldhimthatTarrantwouldneverhavelethimoffanyhow:"itwasn't
hisway."RauchadvisedVancetorewritethelostchapters,andwasgenuinely
surprisedtohearhimpronouncethisan
impossibility.Rauch'sownconceptionoftheproductsofthecreativeartswas
aspurely businesslike (inspiteof his volumeofpoems) as if theyhadbeen
standardized like motor parts. But Vance could only say that the book was
gonepastrecovery....
FinallyitwasagreedthatTarrantshouldgivehimtimetowriteanothernovel,
andthatthe New Hour should meanwhile continue his slender salary. Soon
afterward the first instalment of the royalties on Instead fell due. It was
slightly above Dreck and Saltzer's expectations, and Vance was able to pay
backhalfofthemoneyhehadborrowed,andtoclearofftheinterestandhis
other debts. He had thought long and painfully over the future after his last
talkwithhisgrandmother, andhadfinallyconcludedthat he would leave to
LauraLouthedecisionastoherfutureandhis.Herefrainedfromtellingher
ofMrs.Scrimser'soffer,andofhisresolvenottosharethemoneyshehoped
tomakeonherlecturingtour.Tospeakofthismightraisehopesthathewould
have to disappoint without being able to make his wife see why. The
alternativesheputbeforeherweretheofferofahomewithhisfamily,orthe
possibility of her joining Mrs. Tracy and Upton in California. It went hard
withhimtosuggestthelatter,foritmeanttheavowalofhisfailuretomake
herhappyorcomfortable.Buthesaidtohimself,withagambler'sshrug:"If
shechoosestogotohermotheritwillmeanshewantstobefree--andifshe
does,Ioughttolether."Hestilldidnotunderstandwhyheresentedthisidea
insteadofwelcomingit,orhowmuchtherewasofmemory,andhowmuchof
merepride,inhisdoggeddeterminationtokeepherwithhimaslongasshe
waswilling.
Hardlylessdistastefulwastheideaofgoingbacktohisfamily.Theofferhad
been renewed by Mr. Weston, who, though his ill-advised speculations had
checkedhiscareerinrealestate,wasreadytotakehissonandhisson'swife
into his house, and find a job for Vance (he thought there would still be a
chanceontheFreeSpeaker).ButVance'sfewhourswithhisgrandmotherhad
putEuphoriabeforehiminmercilessperspective.Ineveryallusion,everyturn
ofherspeech,everyimagethatcametoher,hesawhowfarhehadtravelled
from Mapledale Avenue. With cruel precision he evoked the mental
atmosphereoftheplace;theslangydingydaysattheFreeSpeaker,thefamily
eveningsaboutthepink-throatedgramophone;andheknewhecouldnotface
it. Yet he was determined not to let Laura Lou suspect his reluctance. His
businesswas todo hisbestfor her,and perhaps,according toherlights,his
bestwasthis.HeputthecaseforMapledaleAvenuefirst,withoutbetraying
hisownfeelings;heevenexaggeratedtheadvantagesofhisfather'soffer.But,
tohissurprise,LauraLourejectedit.Shewasnevergoodatgivingreasonsor
analysingherinstinctivereluctances,andhesuspectedthatthefearofhurting
hisfeelings
benumbedher.ButsheseemedtofeelthatheoughttobenearNewYork,and
nothavetogobacktonewspaperwork,atleastnotatEuphoria...."Iknow
you'dbedoingitjustforme,"shetriedtoexplain.
"Well, we've got to live," he rejoined, not unkindly; and she said, in her
disjointedway:"IfweweresomewherewhereIcouldcook...andnobody
interfere...."Iftheyhadahomeoftheirown!Heknewthatwaswhatshe
meant.Buthesaid,stillmoregently:"Seehere,LauraLou,tillIcangiveyou
a place where nobody'll interfere, how about going out to your mother and
Upton?Youknowthatclimate--"
She flushed, this time with pleasure; then her eyes grew dusky, as they did
whenshewastroubled."ButIguessCalifornia'dbeagoodwayfartherfrom
yourworkthanEuphoriaeven;andwe'dhavemoreexpenses...."Shelooked
athimwithalittlepracticalsmile.Oh,Lord--howwashetotellher?Yes,he
said,hesupposedhe'dhavetostickonhereinNewYork,onhisjob;whathe
meantwas--"Formetogooutalone?"shecompleted,andaddedimmediately:
"Oh,Vanny,itisn'twhatyouwant,isit?You'renottryingtotellmeitwould
beeasierforyouifIwentbacktoMother?Ifthat'sit,I'dratheryou...."She
endeddesperately:"IfwecouldonlyfindsomelittleplacewhereIcoulddo
thecooking . . ." andashekissed away her tearshesworehe would find a
way,ifshewasreallysureshedidn'twanttoleavehim...."I'dmendforyou
too, better than I have," she sobbed out, rapturous and repentant; and the
search for the little place began. It was anxious and arduous; the friendly
settlementmanager was consulted,butcould suggest nothingwithinVance's
means. Other enquiries failed; and at last it was Rebecca Stram who, oddly
enough,cametotherescue.ShehadanoldJewishmotherwholivedouton
thefringesoftheBronx,andabrotherinrealestatewhopickedupunlikely
bargains, and waited; and among them they found a shaky bungalow
containingsomerattanchairs,adivanandakitchenrange.Itstoodaloneona
bitofbedraggledfarmland,intheremainsofanorchard,withafragmentof
woodlandscreeningitfromflathousesandchimneys.Notfaroff,theoutskirts
of the metropolis whirled and rattled and smoked; but in this sylvan hollow
nature still worked her untroubled miracles, and Vance had to walk through
deepruts,andpastaduckpondandanancientpump,topickupturnpikeand
trolley.Behindthehousethelandroseinawoodedridge,andbeyondthatwas
realcountry,stilluntouched;itwasheaventodwellersatMrs.Hubbard's,and
forthefirstweeksthemeresenseofpeaceandindependencegaveVancethe
illusion that all was well. He consolidated the divan, and bought a stove, a
coupleoflamps,somelinen,ajuterug;hemanagedtheirsimplemarketing,
andriggedupshelvesandhooks;andthehousebeingmadehabitable,Laura
Loubeganthestruggle
tokeepitgoing.AtfirstitdidnotmuchtroubleVance.Hetookhisfountain
penandhispadandwanderedoffalongtheridge,wheretherewerestillshady
hollows in which you could stretch out and dream, and watch the clouds
travel,andthebirds;itwasenoughtobeinthisgreensolitude,andhedidnot
much care what food, or lack of it, he came back to. But for a good many
weekshe did little morethandream. The foundationsofhisbeing had been
shaken;hewasfullofwarfareandalarms.Whathewrotehetoreup,andhe
readmorethanhewrote;thefewbookshehadpickedupatacheapsale,as
theywereleavingNewYork,weredevouredbeforethesummerwashalfover.
Butall the while he was rebuilding hissoul;hefoundno other term for the
return of the inner stability which was like a landing field for his wide-
pinioneddreams.Andthenonedayhelookedoutofthewindowandsawthe
applebough,andhisnewbookhangingonit.Heheldhisbreathandwatched.
...
Hehad no ideaofrevivingLoot. Alldesiretotreat theNewYork spectacle
was gone. The tale he saw shaping itself was simpler, nearer to his own
experience.Itwastobeaboutafellowlikehimself,abouttwoorthreepeople
whosespiritualliveswereasstarvedashisownhadbeen.Hesatforalong
timepenetratinghismindwiththestrangehardbeautycreatedbythatbitof
crookedappleboughagainstalittlesquareofsky.Suchordinarymaterialto
makemagicoutof--andthatshouldbehistheme.Ashemeditated,athousand
mysteriousactivitiesbegantohuminhim,hismindfeltlikethatbitofrustling
woodlandabovethecottage,socircumscribedyetsopackedwiththefrailand
complicatedlifeofbirds,insects,ferns,grasses,burstingbuds,fallingseeds,
all the incessantly unfolding procession of the year. He had only to watch
himself, to listen to himself, to try and set down the million glimmers and
murmursoftheinnerscene."Seehere,LauraLou,"hecriedout,pushingback
his chair to go and tell her--and then remembered that nothing he could tell
would be intelligible to her. He stood still, picturing the instant shock of
thoughtifithadbeenHalohehadcalled,Halowhohadhurriedinfromthe
kitchen....Hesatdownatthedeskandhidhisfaceinhishands."God,"he
thought. "When I was beginning to forget. . . ." He pulled his pen out, and
wroteafewlines;thenhewasstruckbyLauraLou'snothavingrespondedto
hisshout--she who alwaysflewto him attheleast pretext. Aminuteor two
agohehadheardherbusyingherselfwiththepreliminaryassemblingoffood
fragmentswhichshecalledgettingdinner.Itwasfunnyshehadn'tanswered;
hethoughthewouldgoandsee....
Shewasinthekitchen,overtherange.Hethoughthesawherpushsomething
into it--a white rag or paper, it seemed--and a moment later he caught the
smokyacridsmellofburninglinen.Sheturnedwithafaceas
whiteastherag,andasmilewhichshowedherteethtoomuch,asifherlips
hadshrunkaway."Yes...yes...coming..."shesaidnervously.
"Why,what'sthatqueersmell?Whatareyouburning?"
She gave the same death's-head smile. "I can't get the fire to draw--I just
stuffedinanything...."
"Ishouldsayyoudid.Whatastench!Iguessyou'veputitoutnow--"
Shewentandsatdownonthechairbythekitchentablewithoutmakingany
answer.
"I don't see the joke," he grumbled, exasperated at being shaken out of his
dream.
"Iguessthere'ssomethingwrongwiththerange--you'llhavetogetsomebody
tomendit,"shebroughtoutinaqueerthinvoice,asifshehadbeenrunning.
Onthetablewasheruntidyworkbasket,andnearitweremorewhiterags,or
handkerchiefs or something, in a dirty heap. She crammed them into the
basket,lookingathimsideways."Babyclothes?--"hethought,halfdismayed,
halfexultant. He stood a moment irresolute, findingnowords;butsuddenly
shespokeagain,inthesamebreathlessreedyvoice."Youbettergoandfind
somebodytorepairit...."
"Oh,Lord.I'llseefirstifIcan'tdoitmyself,"hegrumbled,rememberingthe
costofthelastrepairstotherange.
"No,no,youcan't.Youbettergooutsomewhereandgetyourdinnertoday,"
sheadded.
"What'llyoueatthen?"
Shegavethesamegrin,whichsounnaturallybaredtheedgesofherpalepink
gums."Oh,I'lltakesomemilk.Youbettergooutforyourdinner.ThenI'lllie
down,"sheinsistedbreathlessly.
Hestooddoubtful,hisbookpalpitatinginhim.Theglorious blueairinvited
him--very likely she'd be glad to have a rest. He noticed the purplish rings
abouthereyes,andthoughtagain:"Itmightbethat,"recallingthescenesin
fiction in which blushing wives announce their coming motherhood. But
LauraLoudidnotseemtowanttoannounceanything,andhewastooshyto
forcehersilence."Wanttogetridofme
today, do you?" he joked; and she nodded, without other acquiescence than
thatofherqueerfixedsmile.
Herummagedinthecupboardforbread,andapieceofthecheesetheyhad
hadforsupper;withanapplefromthemagictreeitwouldbeallhewanted.
Hewouldgoonalongtramp,toawonderfulswampywoodheknewof,the
firsttocatchfirefromtheautumnfrosts.Asenseofholidayfreedomflamed
throughhim."Well,solong,"hecalledout,noddingbackfromthedoor.Her
fixedsmileanswered."Shelookssick,"hethought--andthenforgother.
Magic--whynotcallthebookthat?Theairwasfullofittoday.Allthepoetry
whichtheAmericanimaginationrejects seemed to have taken refuge in the
Americanlandscape,likeaDaphnenotfleeingfromApollobutawaitinghis
call to resume her human loveliness. Vance felt the dumb entreaty of that
tremblingbeautywitharmsoutstretchedtowarmthandlightfromtheslopeof
thedescendingyear.Asthemoodgrewonhimthebloodoftheearthseemed
toflowinhisveins,hisowntoburninredmaplebranchandgoldenshredsof
traveller's joy. It was all part of that mysteriously interwoven texture of the
universe,inthethoughtofwhichamancouldliedownasinhisbed....
Hetrampedonandon,hummingsnatchesofpoetry,ormeaninglesssingsongs
ofhisowninvention,feelingashappyasifhehadbeentakenintothedivine
conspiracyandknewthesolutionofallthedissonances.Itwasaswonderful
andsecretasbirth....ThewordturnedhismindtoLauraLou.Howqueerif
shewere going tohaveachild! He triedtoimagine how lifewouldarrange
itself, with two people to feed, nurse, clothe, provide for--oh, curse that
everlastingobstacle!Hedidn'tevenknowhowLauraLouandheweregoing
to face the winter alone. If she were to have a child he supposed they must
humbletheirprideandaccepthisfather'shospitality.Buthedidnotwantto
dwellonthat.Thingsweresorightastheywere.Thebungalowintheapple
orchardwasjusttheplaceforhimtodreamandworkin,andasforLauraLou,
she was happy, she was herself, for the first time since their marriage. Her
domestic training had been rudimentary, and she was heedless and
improvident, and sometimes-- often--too tired to finish what she had begun.
But now that she had her husband and her house to herself she atoned for
every deficiency by a zeal that outran her strength and a good-humour that
never flagged. In New York she used to sit for hours by the chilly radiator
withoutspeakingor
moving, to listless to tidy up, leaving her clothes unmended, shelves and
drawers in a litter; now she was always stirring about, sweeping, mending,
washing.Sheevenbegantoconcernherselfwiththeadornmentoftherooms,
wheedledoutofVanceembroideredcoversfortheirpillowsandsurprisedhim
oneeveningbyabunchofwildflowersonthesuppertable."Iguessthatwas
thewaythetablewasfixedthedaywelunchedwiththeTarrants,"shesaid,
with a reminiscent smile; and Vance laughed and declared: "Their flowers
weren'tanythinglikeaspretty."Oftennowheheardhersingingatherwork,
till her silence told him she had interrupted it to drop down in the kitchen
rockerwhilethewaveofwearinesssweptoverher....PoorLauraLou!These
monthsinthebungalowhadmadeherintelligibletohim,andturnedhispity
backtotenderness.Afterall,perhapsshewasthekindofwifeanartistought
tohave....
He reached the wood, climbed to a ledge from which he could catch the
distant blue of the Sound, and stretched out in the sun with his bread and
cheeseandhisdream....CertainlythebookmustbecalledMagic....
The curtain went up on his inner stage--one by one his characters came on,
firstfaintlyoutlined,thenmoreclearly,atlastinfullillumination.Theouter
worldvanished,love,grief,poverty,sickness,debt,thelongdisappointments
and the little daily torments, even the consoling landscape which enveloped
him,allshrivelledupliketheuniverseintheApocalypse,withnothingleftin
an unlit void but that one small luminous space. The phenomenon was not
new, but he had never before been detached enough to observe it in its
mysteriousacuity.Ofallthemyriadworldnothingwasleftbutthistinycentre
of concentrated activity, in which creatures born without his will lived out
their complicated and passionate lives. At such moments his most vivid
personal experiences paled with the rest of reality, and some mysterious
transfusionofspiritmadehimnolongerhimselfbutthelifeelementofthese
beingsevokedfromnowhere.Theywerethere,theywerereal,theywerethe
sole reality, and he who was the condition of their existence was yet apart
from them, and empowered to be their chronicler. . . . Tramping back after
dark,hungryandhappyunderthesharpautumnstars,hestoodstillsuddenly
andthought:"God,ifIcouldtellher--"Buteventhatpangwasapassingone.
Thesepeoplewerehispeople,heheldthethreadsoftheirlives,itwastohim
thevision had been given--forthe time that seemedenough,seemed all his
strainingconsciousnesscouldhold....
From the bungalow a light winked through the apple branch on which his
bookhadhung.Thegleamgavehimafeelingofhomelyreassurance.Hesaw
thesuppertableinthekitchen,hisdeskwiththebeckoninglamp.As
soonashehadeatensomethinghewouldgettoworkunderthatlamp,with
thegreatshadowynightlookingonhim....
Undertheappletreehehaltedandlistened.PerhapshewouldhearLauraLou
singing,andseehershadowmovingonthedrawn-downblind.Butthehouse
wassilent.Hewalkeduptothedoorandwentin.Thetablewaslaidwitha
boxofsardines,potatoes,andpickles.Allwasorderlyandinviting;butLaura
Louwasnotthere.Theremembranceofherpalefacewiththatqueerdrawn
smilereturneddisquietingly,andhepushedopenthedooroftheirroom.Itwas
dark,andhewentbackforthelamp.LauraLoulayonthebed,theblankets
drawnup.Shewasmotionless;shedidnotturnasheentered.Lampinhand
he bent over, half afraid; but as the light struck her lids they lifted, and she
lookedathimcalmly,as shehadon theirwedding nightwhen hehadcome
backwithprovisionsfrom the farm and found her sleeping. His anxiety fell
fromhim."Hullo--IguessIwokeyouup,"hesaid.
Shesmiledalittle,notpainfullybutnaturally."Yes.""You'renotsick,child?"
"Oh,no,no,"sheassuredhim."Onlyalittlebittired?"
"Yes.Alittlebit."
Hesatdownontheedgeofthebed."Iguesswe'llhavetogetawomaninto
helpyou."
"Yes.Maybejustforthewashing..."
"Youthinkitwasthewashingthattiredyou?"
"Maybe."Sheshuthereyespeacefullyandturnedherheadaway."Allright.
Haveyouhadanythingtoeat?"
"Yes.Ihadsomemilk."
"Andnowyouwanttogotosleepagain?"
Out of her sleep she murmured: "Yes," and he stooped to kiss her and stole
away.
Ashesatdowntohissupperhereflected:"CertainlyImustgetawomaninto
washforher."Thenhisthoughtswanderedawayagaintohisbook.Afterhe
hadeatenheheatedacupofcoffee,andcarriedthatandthelampbacktohis
desk.
ForthenextfewdaysLauraLouwasweakandlanguid,andhehadtogeta
womanindailytodothework.Butafterthatshewasupandabout,looking
almostwell, and singing in the kitchen while he sat at his desk. The golden
Octoberdaysfollowedeachotherwithoutabreak;andwhenthehousework
wasdonehewoulddragoneoftherattanarmchairsoutundertheappletree,
andLauraLouwouldsitinthesun,wellwrappedup,andbusyherselfwith
themending,whileeverynowandthenhecalledoutthroughthewindow:"To
hellwiththedamnedbook--itwon'tgo!"or:"Child--IbelieveI'vefoundwhat
Iwasafter!"
XLIII
Thegoldendaysbegantobetarnishedwithrain;buttheairremainedmild,
and life at the bungalow followed its quiet course. Vance, plunged in his
imaginaryworld,hardlynoticedthatintherealonethehoursofdaylightwere
rapidlyshortening,andthatinthemorningstherewasawhitehoarfrostinthe
orchard.
Laura Lou seemed to have recovered; but she was still easily tired, and the
womanwhocame forthewashinghadstilltobesummonedalmostdailyto
helpwiththehousework.Thentheweatherturnedcold,andthecoalbillwent
upwitharush.Thebungalowwasnotmeantforwinter,andVancehadtobuy
acoupleofstovesandhavethestovepipespushedupthroughtheroof.Butin
spite of these cares he was still hardly conscious of the lapse of time, and
mighthavedriftedonunawaretotheendoftheyeariftheoldfamiliarmoney
problemhadnotfacedhim.Whatwiththecoalandthestovesandthehired
woman, and buying more blankets and some warm clothes, the monthly
expenseshadalreadydoubled;whatwoulditbewhenwintersetin?Still,they
had the derelict place for a song, and it would perhaps cost less to stay on
therethantomove.
Aboutamonthafterhisgrandmother'sdeparturefromNewYorkalettercame
fromher.Shereportedthesuccessofherlecturetour,andwasloudinpraise
of"Storecraft's"management.Shespokeenthusiasticallyofthewayinwhich
thepublicitywasorganized,andsaiditwasbringingmanysoulstoJesus;and
sheremindedVanceaffectionatelyofheroffertoprovidehimandLauraLou
withahome.Shewouldbereadytodoso,shesaid,assoonasshepaidoffher
debttoMr.Weston;andthatwouldbebeforelong,judgingfromherpresent
success. To justify her optimism she enclosed one of the advance circulars
with which "Storecraft" was flooding the country, together with laudatory
articlesfromlocalpapersandapaeanfromherownspecialorgan,SpiritLife,
(whichwasnow serializing her religious experiences). She said ingenuously
that she guessed she had a right to be proud of such results, and added that
anyhowtheywould showVance therewereplentyofculturedcentresin the
United States where the spiritual temperature was higher than in the Arctic
circlesofParkAvenue.
ThelettertouchedVance.Itcameatamomentwhentheproblemofthewinter
was upon him, and he might have yielded to Mrs. Scrimser's suggestion--if
onlyshehadnotenclosedthenewspaperarticles.Buttheretheywere,inall
their undisguised blatancy, and her pride in them showed her to have been
completely unaffected by her grandson's arguments and entreaties, or at any
rateblindtotheirmeaning.Andafterall,thatveryblindnessexoneratedher.If
shereallybelievedherselfaheaven-sentteacher,whyshouldshenotliveon
whatshetaught?Wheretherewasnofraudtherewasnodishonour.Shewas
onlygivingthese people what they wanted, and what shesincerelybelieved
theyoughttohave.
Yes, butit wasallbasedonthe intellectuallaziness thathe abhorred.Itwas
because she was content with a shortcut to popularity, and her hearers with
wordsthatsoundedwellandputnostrainontheirattention,that,asonepaper
said,shecouldfillthree-thousand-seatauditoriumsallthewayfromMaineto
California.Thesystemwasdetestable,theresultswerepitiable...
.Buthisgrandmotherhadtohavethemoney,andheraudienceshadto
havetheparticularblendofhomemadereligiositythatsheknewhowtobrew.
"Anotherformofbootlegging,"Vancegrowled,andpitchedthenewspapersto
the floor. The fraud was there, it was only farther back, in the national
tolerance of ignorance, the sentimental plausibility, the rush for immediate
results,theget-rich-quicksystemappliedtothespirituallife....Thebeinghe
lovedwithallthetenacityofchildishaffectionwasexactlyonalevelwithher
dupes.
Hedidnotanswertheletter,andhisgrandmotherdidnotwriteagain.
Vancethoughthehadthrownallthe"Storecraft"documentsintothestove;but
onedayhecamebackandfoundLauraLouwithoneoftheadvancecirculars
smoothedoutbeforeheronthekitchentable.Shelookedupwithasmile.
"Oh,Vanny,whydidn'tyoushowmethisbefore?Didyourgrandmothersend
ittoyou?"
He shrugged his acquiescence, and she sat gazing at the circular. "I guess it
wasBuntywhowroteithimself--don'tyoubelieveso?"
Vance's work had not gone well that day, and he gave an irritated laugh.
"Shouldn'twonder.ButyouprobablyknowhisstylebetterthanIdo."
Thetoo-quickbloodrushedtohercheeks,andebbedagainwiththelastword
ofhistaunt.Shelookedathimperplexedly."Youdon'tlikeit,then--youdon't
thinkitmakesenoughofyourgrandmother?"
"Lord, yes! It makes too much--that's the trouble." He picked the leaflet up
andreaditslowlyover,trying,outofidlecuriosity,toseeitfromLauraLou's
pointofview,whichdoubtlesswasexactlythatofhisgrandmother.Butevery
wordnauseated him, andhissense of irony wasbluntedby the factthatthe
grotesque phrases were applied to a being whom he loved and admired. He
threwthepaperdowncontemptuously."IsupposeIcouldmakeagoodliving
myselfwritingthatkindofthing...."
LauraLou'sfacelitupresponsively."I'msureyoucould,Vanny.I'vealways
thoughtso.Buntytoldmeoncethatagoodpublicitywritercouldearnevery
bitasmuchasabestseller."
Helaughed."PityIdidn'tchoosethatline,isn'tit?SinceIdon'tlookmuchlike
beingabestseller,anyhow."
Shescentedthesarcasmanddrewbackintoherself,asherwaywaswhenhe
stungherwithsomethingunanswerable.Vancepickedupthepaper,toreitin
bits,andwalkedawaymajesticallytohisdesk.Thesewomen--!...Ofcourse
his work had been going badly of late--how could it be otherwise, with the
endlessinterruptionsandworrieshewassubjectedto?Amanwhowantedto
write ought to be free and unencumbered, or else in possession of an
independentincomeandofawifewhocouldkeephousewithouthisperpetual
intervention.Otherfellowsheknew...Thethoughtoftheotherfellowswoke
asuddencravinginhim,thatcravingforchange,talk,
variety, a general freshening-up of the point of view, which seizes upon the
creativeartistafteralongunbrokenstretchofwork.HewantedtheCocoanut
Treeagain,andthe"Loafers',"andagoodtalkwithFrenside....Hewanted
abovealltogetawayfromLauraLouandthebungalow....
"Seehere--I'vegotanappointmentintown.IguessifIsprintfortheelevatedI
canmakeitbeforeoneo'clock,"heannouncedabruptly;andbeforeshecould
question or protest he had got into his hat and overcoat, and was hurrying
downthelanetotheturnpike.
ItwasweekssincehehadbeentoNewYork,andthenhehadstayedonlylong
enough to persuade Dreck and Saltzer to give him a small advance on his
royalties.Today,asthehugeroarofthestreetsenvelopedhim,hefelthisheart
beatingintimewithit.Hehadn'tknownhowmuchhehadmissedthebracing
airofthemultitude.HeavoidedtheNewHour,butturnedinforlunchatthe
CocoanutTree,whereitwasbewilderingandstimulating,afterthoseendless
weeks of country solitude and laborious routine, to find the old idlers and
workers,theoldjokes,theoldwrangles,theoldwelcomeagain.EricRauch
methimamicably,andseemedgladtohearthatthenovelwasgrowingsofast.
"Queer, though, if you were to get away the Pulsifer Novel Prize from the
boss,"hechuckledinVance'sear.Vancestared,andhadtobetold,indeepest
confidence, that Tarrant was also at work on a novel--his first--and that the
few intimates who had seen it predicted that it would pull off the Pulsifer
Prize,thoughperhapsnotaltogetheronitsmerits.
"Luckily,though,"Rauch ended,"it's a FirstNovel Prize,andthat rulesyou
out, because of Instead." He seemed to derive intense amusement from the
narrowlyaverteddramaofaconflictbetweentheeditoroftheNewHourand
itsmostnotedcontributor.
WhenVancelefttheCocoanutTree,ratherlaterthanhehadmeantto,hewent
toFrenside'slodgings,butfoundacardwith"Away"abovethelatter'snamein
thevestibule.Thenhe recalled the real object of his trip: he must try to get
anothertwoorthreehundredoutofDreckandSaltzer.Hisreluctancetoask
for a second advance was manifest, and theirs to accord it no less so. The
cashier reminded him affably that it wasn't so very long since his last
application.Thatsortofthingwascontrarytotheirrules;butifhe'dlookin
afterthefirstoftheyear,possiblyMr.Dreckwouldseewhathecoulddo....
Vance turned away, and walking back to Fifth Avenue stood for a while
watching the stream of traffic pour by--the turbid flood which had never
ceasedtopressitswaythroughthoseperpetuallycongestedarteriessincehe
hadfirststood gazingatit,hungryand light-headed,orthelaterdaywhen,
desperatewithanxietyforLauraLouandthe
needformoney, he had breasted thetidetomakehiswayto Mrs. Pulsifer's
andbegforaloan.
Hestood there idlyonthe curbstone, smilingathis past illusionsandat the
similarityofhispresentplight.Hewasaspoorasever,withthesamewantsto
meet, the same burden to bear, and none of his illusions left. Nothing had
changedinhislifeexcepthiseasyfaithinthegenerosityofhisfellows.There
washisgrandmother,indeed,whosegenerositywasnoillusion--atawordshe
wouldshoulderallhisdifficulties.Butthatwordhecouldnotspeak.Andin
alltherestoftheworldheknewofnoonereadytotakeontheburdenofan
unsuccessfulnovelist....
He wandered up Fifth Avenue, letting the noise and the tumult drug him to
insensibility. The cold brief daylight had vanished in a blaze of nocturnal
illumination.VancecrossedovertoBroadwayandtrampedonaimlesslytilla
callflamedoutathimfromamongalltheotherflamingcalls.Beethoven--The
Fifth Symphony . . . He had heard it for the first and only time with Halo
Tarrant,thepreviouswinter....Well,hewasgoingtohearitagain,tohearit
byhimselfthatveryevening.Heturnedinattheconcerthall,securedthelast
seat in the highest gallery, and wandered away again to pick up a sandwich
andacupofcoffeebeforetheconcertbegan.Thenightwascold,andthehot
coffeesetallhisveinssinging.Musicandheatandlove...theywerewhata
fellowneededwhowasyoungandhungryandapoet....
Fromhiscorneroftheupperheavenhecouldleanoverandcatchsightofthe
orchestra stalls where he and Halo had sat on that divine night. He
remembered, vaguely, her having said something about their being
subscriptionseats--aboutherhusband'salwayshavingthemfortheBeethoven
cycle--and his heart began to beat at the thought that she might actually be
sitting there, far below him, that he might presently discover her small dark
headandwhiteshouldersstandingoutfromtheindifferentthrong.Buthehad
come early; nearly all the orchestra seats were still empty, and it was
impossibletoidentifythetwotheyhadoccupied.Withapainfulfixityhesat
watching as the great auditorium gradually filled up. He had forgotten all
aboutthemusicinhisagonizedlongingtoseeMrs.Tarrantagain.Hedidnot
mean to try to speak to her--what was the use?-- but to see her would be a
bitterecstasy;andhewasinpursuitofalltheecstasiesthatnight....
And then, abruptly, the music began. Unperceived by him the orchestra had
noiselesslyfiledin,fillingthestagetierbytier;theconductor'sgesturebroken
the hush, and in the deep region of the soul the echo of the fateful chords
awoke.
Vancelistenedintheconfusedraptureofthosetowhomtheworldoftoneis
aninexplicable heaven.When HaloTarranthad firstintroducedhim toithe
had resented his inability to analyse this new emotion. It seemed as though
greatpoetry,thescienceofNumber,shouldbetheclueofthemathematically
definitelawsunderlyingthiskindredart;andwhenhefounditwasnotso,that
theearmostacutelytauntedtoverbalharmoniesmaybedullinthedissection
ofpuresound,hefeltbaffledandhumbled.Butgraduallyhecametoseethat
forthecreativeartisttwosuchfieldsofemotioncouldhardlyoverlapwithout
confusion.Heneededallhisacutenessandprecisionofsensibilityforhisown
task;itwasbetterthathisparticulardomainshouldliesurroundedbythegreat
goldenhazeoftheotherarts,likeatinycultivatedislandinthevaguenessofa
sunsetocean...
.Asunsetocean:thatwasit!Theinarticulatedepthsinhimwoketothissurge
ofsoundastheydidtothesurgeofthewaves,ortothatmurmurof
thebloodwhichthelipsofloverssendbacktotheirsatisfiedhearts....And
thatwasenough.
When the first interval came he sat for a while with his eyes covered, as
though the accumulated impress must escape if he opened them. Then he
rousedhimself,andlookdownatthestalls.Theywerefillingfast;hewasable
todistinguishdefinitelythetwoseatswhichheandMrs.Tarranthadoccupied.
Theywereempty,andthatseemedtoestablishtheiridentity,andtoputaseal
onthememoryofthatotherevening.Butnowhedidnotgreatlycareifshe
cameornot--shewashisintheplenitudeofthemusic.Heshuthiseyesagain
andthemultitudinousseaspouredoverhim....
XLIV
ThesnowlaysodeepoutsidethebungalowthatVancehadhadtointerrupthis
work(heseemedtobealwaysinterruptingitnowadays)toclearapathfrom
the door to the lane. The shovelling of heavy masses of frozen snow put a
strainonmusclesrelaxedbylonghoursathisdesk,andhestoodstillinthe
glitteringwintersunshine,leaningonhisshovel,whilethecoldandthehard
exerciseworkedlikeadruginhisbrain.
WeekshadgonebysincehislastvisittoNewYork.Hehadnotreturnedthere
sincetheeveningoftheBeethovenconcert.Histalkwithhisfriends
attheCocoanutTreeandhislongeveningofmusicalintoxicationhadsethis
imagination working, and he had come home as from an adventure in far
countries,ladenwithtreasuretobetransmutedintothefleshandbloodofhis
creations.He had often noticed howsmallaspark of experience or emotion
sufficed to provoke these explosions of activity, and with his booty in his
breasthehurriedbacktohissolitudeasimpatientlyashehadleftit.
But though he came home full of spiritual treasure, it was without material
results. He had found no way of raising money, and he knew he must have
somebeforetheendofthemonth.Forafortnightpastthewomanwhocame
tohelpLauraLouhadnotshownherself.Shelivedsomedistanceaway,and
whenVancewenttohuntherupsheexcusedherselfonthepleaofthecold
weatherandthelongsnowywalkdownthelanefromthetrolleyterminus.But
Vanceknewitwasbecauseheowedherseveralweeks'wages,andwhenshe
said:"I'dneverhavecomeallthatway,anyhow,ifithadn'tbeenIwassorry
foryourwife,"hereceivedtherebukemeekly,consciousthatitwasawayof
remindinghimofhisdebt.
WiththecomingofthedrycoldLauraLouseemedtorevive,andforawhile
sheandVancemanagedtocarryonthehousekeepingbetweenthem,though
themealsgrewmoreandmoresketchy,anditbecamecleareventoVance's
inattentiveeyesthatthehousewasbadlyinneedofcleaning.Carryinginthe
bagsofcoal(whichhenowhadtofetchfromtheendofthelane)leftonthe
floorsatrailofblackdustthatLauraLouhadnotthestrengthtoscrubaway,
and the soil was frozen so hard that Vance could no longer bury the daily
refuseatthefootoftheorchard,buthadtoletitaccumulateinanoverflowing
barrel.Allthatmatteredlittlewhen shebegantosingagainaboutthehouse;
but his nerves were set on edge by the continual interruptions to his work
whilehewasstillchargedwithcreativeenergy,andoften,whenhegotbackto
his desk, he would sit looking blankly at the blank page, frightened by the
effortheknewhisbrainwouldrefusetomake.
Buttoday,after hislabour inthesnow,brain andnerveswere quiescent.He
would have liked to put more coal on the stove and then stretch out on the
broken-down divan for a long sleep. But he knew he had to get the kitchen
readyforLauraLou,andafterthat...therewasalwaysan"after"toevery
job,hemusedimpatiently.Heleanedtheshovelagainstthedoor,stampedthe
snowoffhisfeet,andwentin.
LauraLouwasnotinthekitchen.Thefirewasunlit,andnopreparationshad
been made for their simple breakfast. He called out her name. She did not
answer;andthinkingsomewhatresentfullyofhishardworkinthe
snowwhileshesleptwarmbetweenthesheets,heopenedthebedroomdoor.
Shelaywherehehadlefther;herheadwasturnedaway,facingthewall,and
theblanketsandhisoldovercoatweredrawnuptoherchin.
"LauraLou!"hecalledagain.Shestirredandslowlyturnedtohim.
"What'sthematter?Areyousick?"heexclaimed;forherfaceworethesame
painfulsmilewhichhadstruckhimonthedaywhenhehadfoundherpushing
themysteriousragsintothekitchenfire.
"Timetogetup?"sheaskedinascarcelyaudiblewhisper.
Hesatdownonthebedandtookherhand;itwasdryandtrembling.Hisheart
begantobeatwithapprehension."Doyoufeelasifyouweretootiredtoget
up?"
"Yes,I'mtired."
"Seehere,LauraLou--"Heslippeddownonhisknees,andslidhisarmunder
her thin back. "Why is it you always feel so tired?" Her eyes, which were
fixed on his, widened like a suspicious animal's, and he drew her closer to
whisper:"Isit--itisn'tbecauseyou'regoingtohaveababy?"
She started in his arms, and drew back a little instead of yielding to his
embrace. Her tongue ran furtively over her dry lips, as if to moisten them
beforeshespoke."Ababy--?"sheechoed.Vancepressedhertighter.
"I'd--we'llmanagesomehow;you'llsee!Iguessitwouldbegreat,wouldn'tit?
Wouldn't you be less lonely, sweet?" he hurried on, stringing random words
togethertohidetheconfusedrushofhisfeelings.
Shedrewherheadback,andherfreehand,slippingfromundertheblankets,
pushedthehairoffhisforehead."PooroldVanny,"shewhispered.
"WereyouafraidI'dbebotheredifyoutoldme?Isthatwhy--?"Shemadea
faintnegativemotion.
"Whatwasitthen,dear?Whydidn'tyoutellme?"
Thepainfulsmiledrewupherlipagain."It'snotthat."Shelookedathimwith
anexpressionsostrangely,lucidlymaternal,thathefeltashesometimeshad
when,asalittleboy,hebroughthisperplexitiestohismother.Itwasthefirst
timethatLauraLouhadeverseemedtostoopto
himfromheightsofsuperiorunderstanding,andhewasqueerlyawedbythe
mysteryofhergaze."Notthat,darling?"heechoed.
Herhandwasstillmovinginhishair."Wouldn'tyouhavelikedit,dear?"he
repeated.
"Imighthave--onlyI'mtootired."Herhanddroppedbacktoherside.Itwas
alwaysthesameoldrefrain:"I'mtootired."Yetshedidnotcoughanylonger,
sheatewithappetite,shehadseemedlatelytodoherworkwithlessfatigue.
"What makes you so tired, do you suppose?" But he felt the futility of the
question. "I'll run down to the grocer's and call up the doctor," he said
energetically,clutchingattheideaofdoingsomethingdefinite.ButLauraLou
satupinbedandstretchedherthinarmsouttohim."No,no,no--Vanny,no!"
"Butwhynot,darling?"
"BecauseI'mnotsick--becauseIdon'twanthim--becausethere'dbenothingto
tellhim..."Heknewitwasonherlipstoadd:"Becausethere'dbenothingto
payhimwith."
"Nonsense,LauraLou.Youmustseeadoctor."
"Whatwouldhesay?He'dtellmetotakeatonic.I'mallright,Vanny--I'llbe
upandhavebreakfastreadyinhalfanhour....Can'tyougivemetillthen?"
shepleaded,sobbing;andfullofcontritionandperplexityhehurriedbackto
thebed."There,there,child;don'tcry...."
"You'llpromisenot?""Ipromise...."
Helefthertogoandmakeupthekitchenfire,andgetoutthecondensedmilk
andthetinofpreparedcoffee.Inwardlyhesaidtohimself:"Assoonasshe's
upI'llgotoNewYorkandnotcomehometillI'veraisedmoneyenoughtoget
backthehiredwomanandpaythedoctor.She'sprobablyright;it'snothingbut
worry and fatigue that's the matter with her." He fastened his mind on this
conviction like a shipwrecked man clinging to a bit of wreckage. "She's
anaemic,that'swhatsheis....Whatsheneedsisgoodfoodandrest,anda
tonic."Themoreherepeatedittohimselfthestrongerhisconvictiongrew.He
feltinstinctivelythathecouldnotgetonwithhisworkwithoutreassurance,
andyethisworkmustbegotonwithto
buythereassurance....Thelastgleamofinnerlightfadedfromhisbrainasit
struggledwiththisdilemma.For a moment a vision brushed his eyes ofthe
longsummerafternoonsattheWillows,withthesoundofthebeesinthelast
wistariaflowers,andHaloTarrantsittingsilentontheothersideofthegreen
velvettable,waitingforthepagesashepassedthemover....Buthedragged
histhoughtsawayfromthepicture... . As soon as Laura Lou was up they
breakfastedtogether;thenhehurriedofftothetrolley....
At"Storecraft"theytoldhimthemanagerwasinhisoffice,andVanceflewup
inthemirror-linedlift.HehadnotbeenintheplacesincehehadtakenLaura
Lou there to see his bust at the "Tomorrowists'" exhibition. In the distorted
vistaofhislifeallthatseemedtobeyearsawayfromhim.Theliftshothim
out on the manager's floor and he was shown into an office where Bunty
Hayesthronedbefore avast deskofsomerarehighlypolishedwood. Vance
washalfawareoftheultramodernfittings,thesharphighlightsandmetallic
glitteroftheplace;thenhesawonlyBuntyHayes,stoutanddominantbehind
ashiningtelephonereceiverandarowofelectricbells.
"Iwanttoknowifyou'vegotajobforme,"Vancesaid.BuntyHayesrested
bothhisshortarmsonthedesk.
Withastouthairyhandheturnedoverapaperweighttwoorthreetimes,and
hisroundmouthframedtheopeningbarofaninaudiblewhistle.
"See here--take a seat." He leaned forward, fixing his attentive eyes on his
visitor."Factis,I'vebeenthinkingweoughttostartapublishingdepartment
ofourown beforelong--ifitwasonly toshowtheoldfossilshowliterature
oughttobehandled.ButIhaven'thadtimetogetroundtoityet.Seemsasif
Providencehadsentyouroundtohelpmegetamoveon.Myideaisthatwe
might begin with a series of translations of the snappiest foreign fiction, in
connection with our Foreign Fashions' Department. . . ." He leaned forward
eagerly,nolongerawareofVanceexceptasarecipientintelligence."Getmy
idea,doyou?Wesaytothewomen:'ReadthatlastGeedorMorantnovelin
our"Storecraft"Series?Well,ifyouwanttoknowthewaythewomenthose
fellows write about are dressed, and the scents they use, and the facial
treatmenttheytake,allyougottodoistosteproundtoourParisDepartment'-
-youseemyidea?Ofcoursetranslationswouldbejustabeginning;afterwe
gotonourlegswe'dgive'emallthe
best in our own original fiction, and then I'd be glad to call on you for
anythingyouwantedtodisposeof.Factis,I'vegotanideaalreadyforafirst
'Storecraft'novel--"
Hestopped,andVanceoncemorebecameanindividualforhim."Maybeyou
don'tgetmyidea?"hesaidwithasuddenshyness.
Vance felt the nausea in his throat. He began: "Oh, I don't believe it's any
good--"
"Whatisn't?"Hayesinterrupted.
"I mean, my coming here." His only thought now was how to get away; he
couldfindnofurtherwordsofexplanation.ButHayes,stillleaningacrossthe
desk, said mildly: "You haven't told me yet what you came for. But I guess
there'shardlyanycase'Storecraft'isn'treadytodealwith."
Vancewassilent.Inaflashhepicturedhisplightifhelethisdisgustgetthe
betterofhimandturnedawayfromthisman'scoarsefriendliness.Afterall,it
wasnotHayesthemanwhodisgustedhimanylonger,butthepointofviewhe
represented;andwhatbusinesshadafellowwhodidn'tknowwheretoturnfor
his next day's dinner to be squeamish about aesthetic differences? He
swallowedquickly,andsaid:"Factis,Ithoughtperhapsyoumightbewilling
totakemeoninyouradvertisingdepartment."
The whistle which had been lurking behind Hayes's lips broke forth in an
astonished trill. "See here--" he exclaimed, and sat inarticulately
contemplatinghisvisitor.
His gaze was friendly and even reverential; Vance guessed that he was not
beyond being impressed by the idea of a successful novelist offering his
services to "Storecraft." "I suppose you've had some practice with book
blurbs?"hebeganatlast,hopefully.
Vanceshookhishead."Noteven.""Oh,well--"
Vance had recovered his self-possession. He set forth, in as few words as
possible,hisbusinessrelationswiththeNewHourandDreckandSaltzer,and
his urgent need of raising money. He explained that he was debarred from
sellinghisliteraryworktootherbidders,andthathewantedtotryhishandat
publicity.Ithardlyseemedtobehisownvoicespeaking--hefeltmoreasifhe
weremakingacharactertalkinoneofhisbooks.When
HayesopenedaparenthesistoeasehismindonthesubjectofTarrantandthe
New Hour, Vance recalled the drunken row in the office--but that too had
becomefar-offandinoffensive.Theonlythingthatwasactualandurgentwas
whatthismanontheother sideofthedeskwasgoingtosayinreplytohis
appealforhelp.Hestiffenedhimselfinwardlyandwaited.
Hayes leaned back and drummed on the desk. "Cigarette?" he queried,
pushingaboxacrossthetable.Vanceshook hishead,andtherewasanother
silence.Then:"How'syourwife?"Hayesaskedabruptly.
ThebloodrushedtoVance'stemples."She'sfairlywell,"hesaidcoldly."Isee.
Livingatthesameoldstand?"
"No.We'reoutinthecountrynow."
"Say--areyou?"Hayeslithiscigarette,tookapuffortwo,andthenstoodup.
"Seehere,Mr.Weston,Iguesswecanfixyouupsomewayorother.Come
roundwithmenowtoourPublicityDepartment--"Heopenedtheglassdoor
andledthewaydownacorridortoanotherglazedenclosure....
WhenVancegotintotheelevatedtoreturnhomehehadfivehundreddollars
in his pocket. He had spent an hour with "Storecraft's" publicity agent, and
besidesthemoneyhispocketswerebulgingwithmodelsofadvertisements--
"blurbs" and puffs of every conceivable sort, from an advertisement of silk
stockingsor face cream,or "Storecraft's" insurancepolicies,to circularsand
prospectuses featuring the lecture tours managed by "Storecraft's" Arts and
LettersDepartment.Inthebunch,asVanceglancedoverthem, hefoundhis
grandmother'sadvancecircular,andthrustitdisgustedlyundertheothers;but
thedisgustwaseasilydominated.Hehadthemoneyinhispocket,aretaining
fee, Hayes had explained to him. It was worth the money to "Storecraft" to
haveawell-knownnovelistontheirpublicitylist;andhe'dsoonpickupthe
hangofthethingsufficientlytoearnhisadvance,andmoretoo.Fellowswho
knewhowtoslingwordswerewhattheywereafter,Hayescontinued;many
of the literary people didn't seem to realize yet that writing a good
advertisement was just as much of an art as turning out Paradise Lost or
GentlemenPreferBlondes.Vancehardlynoticedatthetimethatthepecuniary
transaction did not take place in the Publicity Department, but in Hayes's
privateoffice,towhichthemanagerinvitedhimbackforacocktailandafinal
talk.Hehadthe
money in his pocket, and he was going to turn to and try to earn it, and as
much more as he could. Compared with these monumental facts everything
elseseemedremoteandnegligible;andwhenHayes,atthecloseoftheirtalk,
saidalittleawkwardly:"Well,solong....Gladtohearyourwife'sallwell
again, anyhow," Vance felt a sudden compunction, as if he had been
deliberatelydeceivingthefirstpersonwhohadreallybefriendedhim."Well,
shehasn'tbeenverybrightlately,"heconfessedwithaneffortatfrankness.
"Thatso?Sorrytohearit."Hayespauseduncertainly,andshiftedhisweight
from one foot to the other. "I don't believe I know just where your burg is.
MaybeIcouldcallroundonedayandseehowshe'sgettingon--bringhera
littlegrapefruitandsoon,eh?"
Vancehesitated.SincetheyhadleftNewYorkhehadgivenhisaddresstono
one;evenEricRauchhadnotbeenabletowheedleitoutofhim.Inreplyto
Hayes he mumbled that he was hard at work on his novel, and had to keep
away from people as much as he could--and he saw Hayes redden at the
rebuff,andwassorry,yetcouldnotbringhimselftosaymore."Well,you'llbe
roundagainsoonwithsomethingtoshowus,Isuppose?"
Vancesaidyes,andafteranotherawkwardmomentthehandsofthetwomen
met.
"You've done me a mighty good turn," Vance stammered, and the other
replied:"Oh,well--callonmeifthere'sanyotherwayIcanbeofuse."Then
theliftreceivedVance,andhedroppeddownthelongflights,dizzywithwhat
hehadachieved,andalittleashamedatthepoorreturnhehadmadeforit.But
Hayeswithhisdamnedgrapefruitspyingoutthemiseryofthebungalow--no.
Onthewayhomehefeltasuddenbuoyancy,combinedwithanewsteadiness
andcomposureofmind.Hewasevenabletoenjoythehumourofthesituation
asheranoverthelistofsubjectsthepublicityagenthadgivenhimtotryhis
hand on. At a newstand he bought a handful of picture magazines, and
plungedintotheadvertisingpages,comparing,criticising,mentallytouching
them up. Evidently what "Storecraft" wanted was a combination of Sinclair
Lewis, Kathleen Norris, and Mrs. Eddy. Well, he thought he could manage
that, and even go them one better. . . . He longed for someone to share his
laugh,andthethoughtofHaloTarrantflashedout,asitalwaysdidwhenthe
humancomedyortragedyheldupanewmasktohim.PoorLauraLouwould
notbeabletoseethejoke.HeradmirationforBuntyHayeswasbasedonhis
scholarship and eloquence--Vance remembered how much she had been
impressedbytheliteraryqualityof
Mrs. Scrimser's advance circular. Her simplicity had irritated him at the
moment; now he saw it through a rosy gleam of amusement. After all, he
decided he would tell Laura Lou about his visit to Hayes and their
arrangement.Itwouldpleasehertoknowthatthetwomenwerefriends;and
somehowhefeltheowedittohernottoconcealHayes'sgenerosity.Hehad
neverforgottenthecrumpledloveletterhehadpickedupinherroom,inthe
earlydaysatPaul'sLanding.Hereachedhisjourney'send,andswungdown
thelanewhistlingandsingingthroughthenight....
Hebangedonthefrontdoor,buttherewasnoanswer.Hetriedthehandleand
itopened.HowoftenhehadtoldLauraLoutolockupinhisabsence!Really,
her carelessness . . . The room was pitch-dark and cold. He stumbled over
something and fell to his knees. "Laura Lou--Laura Lou!" he cried out in
deadlyterror.
Bythelightofhiselectrictorchhesawherlyingalmostacrossthethreshold.
Shewasquitestill,herfaceashywhiteunderthefaintyellowhair.Atfirstin
hishorrorheimaginedanaccident,acrime;butashebentover,whispering
andcryinghername,andchafinghericyhandsinhis,herlidsliftedandshe
gavehimthecomfortedlookofatiredchild.
"LauraLou!Darling!What'sthematter?"
"Carrymebacktobed,Vanny.I'llbeallright."Shespokesoquietlythathe
washalfreassured.
Herheadfellbackonhisshoulderasheliftedhertohisbreast.Inthedarkness
hestumbledacrosstheroom,gropedhiswaytothebed,andlaidherdownon
it.Thenhefoundamatchandlitthelamp.Hishandswereshakingsothathe
could hardly carry it. He held the light over the bed and saw, on the floor
besideit,abasinhalffullofblood,andacrumpledpileofrags,suchashehad
seenherpushintothekitchenrange.
"LauraLou--you'vehadahemorrhage?"
Herlidsflutteredopenagain."EversincethatdayIcaughtcold--""It'snotthe
first?"
Herlipsshapedaninaudible:"Nevermind."
"But,child,child--howcouldyouhideitfromme?InGod'sname,whydidn't
yougetthedoctor?"
Theoldterrorreturned toher eyesasshe clutchedhis sleevewithherweak
fingers."No,no,no..."Sheliftedherselfuphaggardly,hereyeswidewith
fear, like a dead body raising itself out of its grave. "Never, Vanny, never!
You'vegottopromiseme....They'dtakemeawayfromyoutosomestrange
place,withnursesandpeople,whereI'dneverseeyou....Iwon'tgo,Iwon't.
..butifthedoctorcomeshe'llmakeme...andI'dratherdiehere....You
promiseme...."
"OfcourseIpromise.Butyouwon'tdie--youwon't,Itellyou!"Heheldher
tight,burningwithherfever,strainingtopourhiswarmthandstrengthintoher
poorshudderingbody;andafterawhileherheaddroopedbackonthepillow,
andherlidsfelloverherquietedeyes.
XLV
The doctor said he was going to let Laura Lou stay just where she was.
Evidently,then,Vanceconcluded,hedidn'tthinkitwassoserious.Whatshe
wantedwasfeedingup,warmth,nursing.Vancecouldgetawomanintohelp?
Oh,yes....Andsterilizedice?Andfreshmilk?...
Laura Lou lay back smiling, blissful, a little pink in the hollow of her
cheekbones.ShehademptiedtheglassofmilkVancehadbroughther,andthe
mildsunstreamedinontoherbed.ItwasadaylikeApril,thegroundreeking
withasuddenthaw.
Vancefollowedthedoctoroutontotheporch,andthetwomenstoodtherein
silence.OnthewayVancehadhandedtothedoctorthesumthatwasowing
him; and the doctor, who was a good fellow, and no doubt saw how things
were, had said: "Oh, see here--there's no sort of hurry. . . ." After that they
stoodandlookedforawhileathismud-spatteredFord,whichhaddugitsway
downthelanethroughthemorassofthethaw.
"You'll be back soon?" Vance asked, wondering how to let the doctor know
thattherewouldbenotroublenowaboutpayingforhisvisits.
"Oh, sure--" said the doctor, who was young and not very articulate. He
stampedhisfeetonthewoodenstep,andadded:"Notthatthere'smuchelseto
do."
"Youmeanshe'llpullroundsoon,withthistonic?"Vanceheldtheprescription
inhishand.
ThedoctorlookedathisFord,andthenatVance.Hehadapoorsortofface,
notmadeforemotionalemergencies,andseemedtoknowit.Helaidhishand
awkwardly on Vance's shoulder. "If I was sure she'd pull round, I'd have to
takeherawayfromheretoday.I'mnotsure--that'swhyI'mgoingtoletyou
keep her." He turned and went down the steps. From his seat in the car he
calledouttoVance,whohadnotmoved:"Anyway,I'lllookintomorrow."
AfterthedoctorhaddrivenawayVancecontinuedtostandinthesameplace
intheporch.Hewastryingtopiecetogetherthemeaningofthewords:"That's
why I'm letting you keep her." Laura Lou had doubtless known that if the
doctor had been sent for sooner she would have been packed off to a
sanitarium.Nowitdidn'tmatter--andthatmeantthatshewasdying,oratleast
that the doctor thought so. Vance tried to grasp the reality underlying the
words,but itslipped outof hishold.Heknewvery littleof thecharacter of
tuberculosis, except for its more melodramatic features: fever, hemorrhages
and night sweats--the sort of consumption people had in sentimental novels.
Oftherealdiseasehehadnoexperience.ButhesawthatLauraLouwasless
ignorant;hehadguessedinstantlythatinherterrorofbeingtakenfromhim
shehadconcealedherconditionaslongaspossible;andhewondereddullyif
she had understood that the doctor's permission to her to remain at the
bungalow was her death warrant. But even that dark word conveyed little
meaning. The doctor's phrase had acted like some strange corrosive,
decomposing Vance's visible world. He stood in the porch repeating to
himself:"LauraLou,LauraLou,"asifthenamewereamagicformulaagainst
destruction.Hetastedsomethingsaltonhislips,andfoundthatthetearswere
runningdownhisface....
Well,afterall,thedoctorhadtoadmitthenextdaythathispatientwasagood
dealbetterthanhehadexpected.Awonderfulrally,hesaid....Vance,atthe
foot of the bed, caught a quick flit of fear in Laura Lou's eyes. The doctor
musthavecaughtittoo,forheaddedwithhisclumsylaugh:"Anyway,Iguess
thisair'sasgoodastheAdirondacks..."andLaura
Lou's head fell back contentedly. . . . After that she seemed to maintain her
strength, though without making perceptible progress. The doctor did not
comeoften;hesaidtherewasnothingtodobeyondnursingandfeeding,and
Vancecouldalwaysgetholdofhimbytelephoningfromthegrocery..
..Thehiredwomancameregularly,butshecouldnotbepersuadedtostayat
night, and Vance trembled to think of what might happen if anything went
wrongandhehadtoleaveLauraLouwhileherushedoutforhelp.He
triedtopersuadehertolethimgetatrainednurseforthenight,butthesame
looksoffearcameintohereyes,andsheaskedifthedoctorhadsaidso,andif
itmeantthatshewasgoingtodierightoff.Vancelaughedthequestionaway,
anddraggedthedivanmattressintoacornerofthebedroom.Thatfrightened
hertoo,andfinallyhehadtogobacktohispreviousarrangementofsleeping
inthelivingroom,andtryingtowake
himselfupatintervalstocreepinforalook.Butyouthandhealthmade
himaheavysleeper;andaftervainlytryingtoforcehimselftowakeatregular
intervalshe got the hired woman to brew a pot of strong coffeeevery night
beforesheleft,andkepthimselfawakeonthat.
As the doctor said, there was really very little to do; and after a few days
Vancetriedtogetbackto work.Assoonashe satdownathisdesk hewas
overwhelmed by an uncontrollable longing to plunge again into his novel.
Oncebefore--afterseeinghisgrandfatherbytheriverwithFlossDelaney--he
hadbeendraggedbacktolifebytheneedtoworkhisanguishoutinwords.
Now, at this direr turn of his life, he found himself possessed by the same
craving,asif hisartmustbefedbysuffering,likesomeexquisiteinsatiable
animal. . . . But what did all that matter, when the job before him was not
novel-writing but inventing blurbs for "Storecraft"? He had already spent a
good part of Hayes's cheque, and he would need more money soon; his
businessnowwastoearnit.Heclenchedhisfistsandsatbroodingoverthe
model"ads"tillitwastimetocarryintheicedmilktoLauraLou.Buthehad
not measured the strength of the force that propelled him. In his nights of
unnaturalvigilhisimaginationhadacquiredafierceimpetusthatwouldnotlet
him rest. Words sang to him like the sirens of Ulysses; sometimes the
remembering of a single phrase was like entering into a mighty temple. He
knew,asneverbefore,theraptureofgreatcometflightsofthoughtacrossthe
heaven of human conjecture, and the bracing contact of subjects minutely
studied,withoutsomuchasaglancebeyondtheirborders.Nowandthenhe
wouldstopwritingandlethisvisionssweephimaway;thenhewouldreturn
withrenewedfervourtotheminutescrutinyofhisimaginarycharacters.There
was something supernatural and compulsory in this strange alternation
between creating and dreaming. Sometimes the fatigue of his nights would
overcome him in full activity, and he would drop into a leaden sleep at his
desk;andonce,whenhe
rousedhimself,hefound hisbrainechoing withwords readlongago, inhis
earlydaysofstudyandstarvation:"Iwassweptaroundalltheelementsand
back again; I saw the sun shining at midnight in purest radiance; gods of
heavenandgodsofhellIsawfacetofaceandadoredthem..."Yes,thatwas
it;godsofheavenandgodsofhell...andtheyhadmasteredhim.
...Hegotthemilkoutoftheicebox,andcarrieditintoLauraLou....
He had forgotten all about Bunty Hayes and the "Storecraft" job. Every
moment that he could spare from his wife was given up to his book. And
LauraLoureallyneededsolittlenursing....Onedaythedoctor,ashewas
leaving, stopped in the porch to say: "Isn't there anybody who could come
over and help you? Hasn't your wife got any family?" The question roused
Vance from his heavy dream. He had not yet let Mrs. Tracy know of her
daughter'sillness.HeexplainedtothedoctorthatLauraLouhadamotherand
brotheroutinCalifornia,butthathehadn'tsentthemwordbecauseifhedid
themotherwouldbesuretocome,andLauraLouwouldknowthatonlyan
alarmingreportwouldmakeherundertakesuchajourney--andhefearedthe
effectonhiswife.
Thedoctorconsideredthisinhisfriendlyinarticulateway."Well,Idon'tknow
butwhatyou'reright.Isupposeyou'rewillingtotaketheresponsibilityofnot
lettingthemknow?"hesaidatlength;andonVance'ssayingyes,hedroveoff
withoutfurthercomment.
Thedayssucceededeachotherwithasortofdeceptiverapidity:theyhadthe
smoothmonotonousglideofwaterbeforeitbreaksintoafall.Everyhourwas
alikeinitsslowpassage,yettheredidnotseemtobeenoughofthemtoeke
outanordinaryday.Afteranintervalofcoldandraintheweatherbecamefine
andspringlikeagain,andonthefinestdaysVancecarriedLauraLouintothe
livingroom,andshesatthereinthesun, wrapped in blankets, and watched
himwhilehewrote.
"Soon I'll be copying for you again," she said, with the little smile which
showedthelineofherpalegums;andhesmiledbackatherandnodded.
"IguessI'lldoitbetterthanIusedto...Iwon'thavetostoopoverso,"she
continued.Henoddedagainandputhisfingersonhislip;forthedoctorhad
toldhernottotalk.Thenhewentonwithhiswriting,andwhenheturnedto
lookatheragainherheadhadfallenbackandshewassleeping,thesuninher
hair.
Onedayshepersuadedhimtoletherstayuplongerthanusual.Shelikedto
see him writing, she said; and what harm was there, if she sat as still as a
mouseanddidn'ttalk?Hecouldtellthedoctorthatshedidn'ttalk....Vance,
deepinhiswork,absentlyacquiesced.Helikedtohavehernearhimwhilehe
wrote--hefeltasifnothingcouldgoreallywrongwhilehewasclosetoher,
andheknewthatshefeltsotoo.Henolongerbelievedshewasgoingtodie,
andhehadanideathatshedidnotbelievesoeither;butneitherofthemdared
tosayawordtotheother.Itwasasiftheymustjustsitandholdtheirbreath
whilethefootstepsoftheenemyhesitatedoutsideonthethreshold.
Vancewroteonaslongasthedaylightlasted;thenhegotuptofetchthelamp.
The fire had gone out, and he noticed with dismay how cold the room had
grown.Hecalledtothewomaninthekitchentobringinsomecoal.Hestood
thelamponthedesk,andastheunshadedlightfellonLauraLou'sfacehefelt
areturnoffear.Shewassleepingquietly,butherfacewassobloodlessthat
there seemed to be nothing alive about her but the hair bubbling up with
unnaturalbrilliancefromherdrawnforehead."Iwonderifit'struethatthehair
dieslast?"hethought.
When the fire was made up he said: "We'd better get her back to bed," and
whilethewomanwentintopreparethebedhestoopedoverLauraLouand
gatheredherup.Hereyesopenedandrestedonhis,butwithalookofterror
and bewilderment. "Who is it?" she exclaimed, and began to struggle in his
arms;andasheloweredhertothebedthehemorrhagecame....Hehurried
the woman off to telephone for the doctor, adjuring her to come back as
quicklyasshe could; and when she had gone he tried to remember what he
hadbeentoldtodoif"it"happened,andtostumblethroughthedoingasbest
he could. By and by the bleeding stopped and he sat down by the bed and
waited.Thenightwassostillthathecouldheareverysoundalongwayoff;
butnoonecame,andashesatthererememberedthefrightenedfugitivelook
in the woman's eyes, and said to himself that she probably did not mean to
return....Thetimedragged on--hoursandhours,days and nights, it might
have been--and finally he heard the doctor's motor-horn down the lane. He
lookedathiswatchandsawthatitwashardlyanhoursincethewomanhad
goneforhim.
The doctor said there was nothing to do--never had been, anyhow, from the
first. In those cases he never bothered people--just let them stay where they
wantedto...No,therewouldn'thavebeenanythingtodolastwinter,
even.Ofcourse,ifthey'dknownlongago...butitwasthequickkind,that
had probably been only a few months developing, and in those cases there
wasn'tanyearthlygoodinsendingpeopleoff....
He agreed with Vance that the woman probably wouldn't come back;
hemorrhages always scared that kind of people out of their senses; but he
promisedtotryandgetanursethefirstthinginthemorning.Therewasabad
epidemicofgrippe,andnurseswerescarceinthedistrict;buthe'ddowhathe
could...andforthetimebeinghethoughteverythingwouldbecomfortable.
WhenhehadgoneVancelookedathiswatchagainandsawthatitwasnotyet
ten o'clock. He sat down by the bed, where Laura Lou was sleeping with a
quietlookonherface.
BeforedaylightVancecreptouttoputcoalonthefireandstartuptherange.
He opened the front door and looked out into the thinning darkness. All his
actions were mechanical; his mind refused to work. He felt a lethargic
heavinessstealingoverhim,andfindingapotofcoldcoffeeinthekitchenhe
putitontherangetowarm.ThenhecreptbacktoLauraLou,satdownbythe
bed,andfellasleep...Whenhewokeitwasbroaddaylight,butshewasstill
sleeping. He shook himself, got the hot coffee, and swallowed it at a gulp.
Thenhebegantosetaboutsuchrudimentaryhouseworkashewascapableof,
whilehewaitedforLauraLoutowake.
Afterawhileheheardamotorhorn.Itwasnotthedoctor'shoot;butperhaps
itmightbethenurse?Heinterruptedthecleaningofthekitchendishes,and
when he got to the front door he saw that a big motor had stopped halfway
downthelane,andthatamanwasadvancingonfootundertheappletrees.He
andVancestaredateachother.ItwasBuntyHayes.
"Say--this is country life all right!" Hayes exclaimed, coming forward with
outstretchedhand."Ittakesasleuthtorunyoufolksdown."
Vancestoodmotionlessontheporch.TheshockofHayes'ssuddenappearance
actedstupefyinglyonhisunstrungnerves.Foramomenthecouldnotadjust
himselftothisabruptintrusionofaworldthathadpassedoutofhisthoughts.
Thenangerseizedhim.
"Itwasnoearthlyuserunningusdown,"hesaid."Nouse?"
"Ihaven'tgotanythingforyou.Ihaven'tdoneastrokeofwork,andI'vespent
everycentofthemoneyyougaveme."
Hayes received this with a look of embarrassment, as though the words
offended not his pride but a sense of delicacy which Vance had never
suspectedinhim.Hestoodinthegrassbelowthedoorstepandlookedupat
Vance,andVancelookeddownonhimwithoutmakinganymotiontoinvite
himin.
"Why,Ididn'tcomeonbusiness--"Hayesbegan.
Vance continued to stand squarely on the upper step. "What did you come
for?"heasked;andhesawthebloodpurpletheother'sruddyface."Ipresume
youthinkit'srathertooearlyinthedayforacall?"Hayescontinued.Hewas
evidentlytryingfora toneofconciliatoryease."Fact is,Iheard byaccident
youwerelivingoutintheseparts,andasIwasrunninguptotheHudsonto
spendSundayIthoughtyouandMrs.WestonwouldexcusemeifIdroppedin
ontheway...."
Vancecontinuedtostareathim."IsthisSunday?"heasked.
"Why,yes."Hayeshesitatedamoment."I'msorryifIbuttedin.Butseehere,
Weston--youlooksick.CanIdoanything?Isthereanythingwrong?"
Vancepushedhishairbackfrom hisforehead. He realizedforthe firsttime
thathe wasunshaved, unwashed,withthe feverofhis wakefulnights inhis
eyes. He looked again at Hayes, with a last impulse of contempt and futile
anger.Atrivialretortrosetohislips;buthisvoicecaughtinhisthroat,hefelt
themusclesofhisfaceworking,andsuddenlyhebrokeintosobs.Inamoment
Hayeswasbyhisside.Vancepressedhisfistsagainsthiseyes;thenheturned
andthetwomenlookedateachother.
"LauraLou?"
Vance nodded. He walked back into the house and Hayes followed him.
"Christ,it'scoldinhere!"Hayesexclaimedbelowhisbreath.
"Yes.Iknow.Imadethefire,butit'sgoneoutagain.Thewomandidn'tcome
back...."
"Thewoman?"
"Thehiredwoman.Whenshesawthehemorrhagelastnightshebolted.The
doctor's trying to find a nurse." The two spoke to each other in whispers.
Hayes's flush had faded at Vance's last words, and his face had the ghastly
sallownessoffull-bloodedmenwhentheircolourgoes.
"Damnthenurse.Here,IguessI'lldoasgoodasanynurse."Heloweredhis
voicestillmoretoadd:"Isitwarmerinwheresheis?"Vancenodded."Then
I'llgetthisfirestartedfirstoff."Hepulledoffhiscoatandlookedabouthim.
"Yougobacktoher--I'llseetothings.I'musedtocamping.Don'tyoumind
aboutme...."
Vance, as if compelled by a stronger will, turned obediently toward the
bedroom.HehadnotknowntillHayesenteredthehousehowdesperatelyhis
solitude had weighed on him. He felt as if life had recovered its normal
measure, as if time were re-established and chaos banished. He understood
that he was dizzy with hunger and sleeplessness and fear. He crept back to
LauraLou'sbedandsatdownbesideher.
Shewasstillasleep;inthehalfdarknesshecouldjustseethefaintstirofher
breathing.Helongedtofeelherpulse,butwasafraidofdisturbingher,andsat
there,holdinghisbreath,hisbodystiffenedintoimmobility.Outsideheheard
Hayesmovingaboutwithastrangelylighttreadforsoheavyaman."Hemust
have taken off his shoes so as to make less noise," he thought, with a little
twingeofgratitude.IthelpedhimtohearHayespaddingsoftlyabout,andto
wonder what he was doing. After the ghastly stillness of the night, it made
everything less dreadful and unreal to listen to those familiar household
sounds.
PresentlyhethoughthewouldgoandgetLauraLou'smilk,tohaveitwithin
reachwhenshewoke.Butthetruthwasthathecouldnotstaystillanylonger-
-hefeltasuddenneedtoseeHayesagain,andhearhisvoice.
He stretched out one foot after another, trying to get stealthily to his legs
withoutherhearinghim.Butashegotupthechairslippedbackandknocked
againstthe side ofthebed. He stopped interror, and LauraLoustirred, and
seemedtostruggletoraiseherheadfromthepillow.Herantothewindowto
pulluptheblind,andwhenhegotbacktothebedsheliftedherselfuptohim
withoutstretchedarms,andtheunbearablelookofterrorinherface."Vanny,
I'm--"Shedroppedbackandlaystill.Hekneltdownbesidethebedandtook
herhand;butpresentlyshebegantobreatheinshortrackinggasps.Amortal
chill stole over him. Those gasps were like the sound of something being
wrenchedoutofitssocket.Hereyeswereshutandshedidnotseemtoknow
thathewasthere.
He got up and went to the door. Through the crack he saw Hayes in his
shirtsleevesputtingacoffeepotandsomethingsteaminginadishonthetable.
He beckoned to him and said: "The doctor--you'd better go for him quick."
Thenhethoughtheheardasoundinthebedroomandturnedback,
trembling.AshemovedawayHayescaughthisarm."Issheworse?CanI
seeheraminutefirst?"hewhispered.
Vancesuddenlyfeltthatitwouldbearelieftohavesomeoneelselookatthat
far-offfaceonthepillow. PerhapsHayeswouldknow... Hesighed"Yes,"
andHayescreptintotheroomafterhim.Theywentuptothebed,andHayes
bentoverLauraLou.Hereyeswereopennow.Theylookedstraightupatthe
twomen,andbeyondthem,intotheunknown.Herhandtwitchedonthesheet.
Suddenlyshedrewashortbreathandthenwasquietagain.VanceandHayes
stoodsidebysidewithoutspeaking.Herhandstoppedtwitching--itlaystillon
thesheet,dryandfrailasadeadleaf.Hayessuddenlystoopedlower,bringing
his round close-cropped head close to her lips; then he slowly straightened
himselfagain."She'sdead,"hesaid.
Vancestoodmotionless,uncomprehending.HesawHayesputoutoneofhis
shortthickhandsanddrawdownthelidsoverLauraLou'seyes.Thenhesaw
himwalkoutoftheroom,verystiffly,withshortunevensteps.
Thehourspassed.Hayeswentofftotelephone;whenhecamebackthedoctor
was driving up with a nurse. The two went into the bedroom together, and
Vance sat outside on the porch. He felt like an indifferent spectator. After a
whileHayescameoutandsaid:"Here,yououghttohavesomethingtoeat--
there'ssomeeggsandhotcoffeeinthekitchen."Vanceshookhisheadandthe
otherdisappearedagain.Thedoctordroveoff;hetoldVance thatMr.Hayes
wouldtakethenursebackwhenshehadfinished.Theword"finished"hada
dreadful sound; but Vance did not stir from his place. He felt that whatever
washappeningwithinwassomethingwithwhichhehadnoconcern.Atlast
thenursecameout,andHayesdroveherdowntheroadtothetrolley.When
hecamebackVancewasstillsittinginthesameplace.
"Won'tyougoinandseehernow?"Hayesaskedhesitatingly.
Without answering, Vance got up and followed him into the house. Hayes
paused in the living room, and Vance went up to the closed door of the
bedroom.Thenhestoppedandturnedback."Youcometoo,"hesaidtoHayes.
Theothershookhishead."No,no."
ButVancefeltanindescribabledreadofgoingaloneintotheuttersilenceof
that room. "You come too," he repeated, in the tone of an obstinate child.
Hayesflushedup,andfollowedhimintotheroom.
Thebedwasallwhite;asheapproached,Vancesawthatitwascoveredwith
whiterosesandEasterlilies.Hayesmusthavebroughtthembackinthebig
boxhehadluggedinfromthemotor.Emergingfromthecoverletofflowers
was a small waxen image with the lineaments of Laura Lou. Her eyes were
shut, her pale lips smiled. She seemed to have been modelled by a sculptor
who had no power of conveying the deeper emotions--or to have reached a
regionwheretheydropfromthesoullikeaworngarment.
Vance had forgotten that Hayes was in the room. For a long while he stood
gazingattheemptyshellofLauraLou.Hedreadedtotouchher,tofeelthe
coldsmoothnessofherquietedflesh;buthefeltthatshemightknowhewas
there,andperhapsinadimwayresenthisindifference.Withanefforthebent
overher,andlaidhishandonhercoldhandsandhislipsonhercoldforehead.
Behindhimhe heardHayesmoving.Heturnedandsaw thattheheavyman
had got down on his knees, a little way from the bed. He lifted his clasped
handsandsaidin a queer artificialvoice:"Shallwepray. . . ?" Vance said
nothing,andHayeswenton:"OurFatherWhoartinHeaven,hallowedbeThy
Name..."Hehesitated,asifhewerenotsureofthenextwords...."Forgive
usourtrespassesagainstyou..."hewenton"...asIforgiveLauraLou....
Oh,God,yes,Idoforgiveher!"Heburstintomiserablehelplesssobs,burying
hisfaceinhishands.
Vancehadremainedstandingbesidethebed.HewentuptoHayesandputa
hand on his shoulder. The other got awkwardly to his feet, fumbling for a
handkerchief.Vancetookhimbythehand,andthetwomenwalkedsideby
sideoutofthequietroom.
XLVI
ItwasVance'slastdaybutone.Hewasgoingbacktohisfamilyat
Euphoria.
He had lingered on at the bungalow to try to sleep off his lethargy before
seeingpeopleagain,andtakingupthedailyround.Hewouldhavelikedtogo
onlivingtherealone,watchingtheapproachofspring,trampinginthewoods,
writing,dreaming,tryingtoadjusthimself to life again. The solitude of the
place, so dreadful to him during the last days of Laura Lou's illness, had
become soothing now that he was alone. But practical reasons made it
impossibletoremain;andforthepresentthe simplestthingwas toreturn to
hisparents.
Hewasbeginningtoshakeoffthestateofapathywhichhadovercomehimas
soonasthestrainwasover;butevennowhecouldnothavesaidhowthedays
hadpassedsinceLauraLou'sdeath.Allhewascertainofwasthat,afterall,no
greatinnerchangehadbefallenhim.Herememberedhowoncebefore,after
he had carried her off to New York, reconquering her from her mother and
BuntyHayes,hehadexpectedthateverythingintheirliveswouldbenewand
different and how he had gradually come to see that nothing was changed.
Anditwas thesamenow:lifecould notchangeLauraLou,and neitherhad
death changed her. At first he had imagined that death, the great renewer,
wouldrenewhisblurredvisionofher,setherbeforehiminacompletenesshe
had somehow always missed. But death did nothing of the kind. It left him
only that larval image among the white roses, with which his imagination
could do nothing. Behind that uncommunicative mask the face of the real
Laura Lou was as he had always known it. How could death give people
anythingtheyhadnothadinlife,exceptthepathosofthethwarteddestiny?
Andthathe had always felt in Laura Lou. He had always thought ofheras
someone thwarted and unfulfilled; had often imagined her life with another
man--withBuntyHayeseven--asmorelikelytohavegivenherthechanceto
express what was in her. But fate had made her choose him instead; and in
spiteoftheincompletenessoftheirlifetogetherheknew,totheverylast,that
it was what she wanted. It had not needed death to show him that. It was
because he knew that he was her choice, and that she would certainly have
chosen rather to be unhappy with him than comfortable and contented with
anyoneelse,thatthetiebetweenthemwassacred.Deathhadalterednothing
inhisvisionofher,andaddednothingtoit.Deathhadsimplyclosedthebook
inwhichhehadlongagoreadthelastword....
Whenthesethoughtsfirstcametheyfrightenedhim.Itseemedasthoughhe
could never have loved Laura Lou; yet this was not so. And she had never
been so dear to him as during their last months together. But since he had
honestlytriedtogiveherallthatshewascapableofreceivingfromhim,how
washetoblameifhergoinghadlefttheliveforcesinhimuntouched?Itwas
asifadoorhadquietlyopenedandshutinaroomin
which he was working--and when he looked up from his work he saw no
change.Someonehadgoneout,buttheroomwasnotmoreempty....
He had not seen a human being for the last three or four days. The hired
woman,ashamedofherdesertion,hadofferedtocomebackandhelphim,but
hehadrefused;thedoctorhadmadehimpromisetotelephoneifheneeded
anything;Hayeshadwantedhimtocomeandstayinhisflatintown.Vance
feltagreatkindnesstowardthemall--eventowardthefrightenedhiredwoman
hehadnoresentment.Butwhattheycouldnotanyofthemunderstandwas
howmuchhewantedtobealone....Hehadbrokenintoalaughwhen,the
dayafterthefuneral,hehadsurprisedHayesandthedoctorfurtivelyhunting
forhisrevolverwhentheythoughthewasoutofsight....
Nowthatthetimetoleavehadcome,hewassorryhehadnotdecidedtogoon
campingaloneinthebungalow.ItwasasoftdayattheendofMarch;theair
wasfullofthesmellofwetearthandnewgrass;andhesatontheporchand
smokedhispipe,andthoughtofwhatthatswampywoodofhiswouldbeina
weekortwo.Hehadgrownintoharmonywithhissolitarylife;thethoughtof
his book was reviving, the characters were emerging again, gathering about
him unhindered, like friends banished by some intimate preoccupation and
nowstealingbacktotheirfamiliarplaces....
Hewasdisturbedbythesoundofamotorhorn,andgottohisfeetimpatiently.
Whoeverhis visitorswere, theywereunwanted. Heturned toslipout atthe
backofthehouse,andscrambleoverafenceintothewoodlot.Butthesound
wasnotrepeated--probablyitcamefromapassingcarontheturnpike.Hesat
down,leaninghisheadcontentedlyagainstthepostoftheporch,andgazing
upatthepoolsofspringskybetweenthecrookedarmsoftheappletree.Lost
inthoseetherealdepths,hewasawareofnothingnearerearthtillheheardhis
name; then he started up and saw Halo Tarrant a little way off, under the
apple-tree.Shelookedverypale,buthiseyes,fullofthesunlitsky,seemedto
seeherthroughamistofgold.
"Vance--I'vefoundyou!"Shecametowardhimwithherquickimpetuousstep,
and as she drew near he saw that the radiance was not caused by the sun
dazzleinhiseyesbutbysomeinnerlightinhers.Hethought:"It'sfunnyIwas
thinkingaboutthatwood--I'dliketoshowittoher...."Thentherealityof
thingsrushedbackonhim,andhestoodtongue-tied.
Sheglancedpasthimatthedilapidatedbungalow."Thisiswhereyou'vebeen
livingallthesemonths?"
"Allthesemonths--yes."
Hereyeshad travelledontothebackgroundofbare woodlandontheridge.
Shescrewedherlipsupinhershortsightedway,andthelittlelinesabouther
eyes made her seem nearer to him, and more real. "It must be lovely over
there,"shesaid.
"Oh,there'sawoodbeyond,withagoldandpurpleswampinthemiddle--I
wishIcouldtakeyouthere!"
"Well,whynot?"Shesmiled."Ihavesomuchtosaytoyou....Wemightgo
therenow,ifit'snottoofar...."
Hesaidthoughtfully:"It'stoofarforthisafternoon.We'dhavetomakealong
dayofit."
"Oh,thatwouldbeglorious!"Sheglancedaboutheragain."ButIlikeithere
too...."Shelookedathimhesitatingly:"Areyoulivinghereallalone?"
"Yes."
Shestillseemedtohesitate."MayIcomeinandseewhatit'slike?"
Vance felt his colour rise. He did not want her to see the shabbiness of the
dismantledbungalow,withhisfewpossessionsstackedupfordeparture,and
the untidy divan on which he had slept since Laura Lou's death. "Oh, it's a
poorsortofplace.It'sagooddealpleasanterouthereinthesun."
"Idaresay.It'slovelyhere,"sheagreed."Buteverything'slovelytome...I'm
alittledrunkwiththespring--andfindingyou....ShallIsitdownherebeside
you?Youmustn'tsmuggleawayyourpipe--pleasedon't!"
Hepulledouthispipeandrelitit."WaittillIgetyouacushionorsomething."
Hefetchedablanketoffthedivanandlaiditontheupperstep,andtheysat
downsidebyside."It'sgoodhereinthesun,"hesaid,hisvoicetrembling.
"Yes,it'sgood."
Theysatsilentforaminuteortwo,andhecouldfeelthatshewaspenetrated
bythedeepwell-beingthatsteepedhissoul.
"Yousaidyouhadagreatdealtotellme,"hebeganatlast,halfreluctantto
breakthesilence.
"Yes, a great deal." She paused again, and met his eyes with another little
smile,halfshy,halfchallenging."Butit'salongstory--andperhapsyouwon't
understandafterall."
Hewas silent,not knowingwhatto say, andwonderingwhy theyneeded to
telleachotheranything,insteadofjustbaskinginthefulnessoftheirmutual
intelligence.Buthesawthatsheexpectedananswer."WhatmakesyouthinkI
won'tunderstand?"
Shelaughednervously."BecauseIwantyoutosomuch.""Well--try."
Shestoodup,walkedawayundertheappletrees,andcamebackandsatdown
besidehim."Vance--yourememberthatnightwhenyoubroughtmethefirst
chaptersofLoottoread?"Henodded.
"And you remember what you said afterward--and what I said?" He nodded
again.
"ThatnightwhenIsawyougoIthoughtIcouldn'tbearit.""No--"
Sheturnedandlookedathim."Youtoo--?""Yes."
"Oh,then--thenI cantellyou."Henoticed,withthat odddetachmentwhich
sometimes came to him in emotional moments, that her eyelids trembled
slightly,aspeople'slipstremblewhentheyareagitated.Sheseemedconscious
ofit,forsheturnedherheadawaywithoutspeaking.
"Youweregoingtotellme,"heremindedher.
Shelookedathimagain,gently,attentively,asifhereyeswerefeelingtheway
forherwords."Itbeginsso farback--theday we went up Thundertop. That
day I made up my mind I must marry Lewis." She stopped. It was the first
timeVancehadeverheardheralludetohermarriage.Hehadpouredoutall
hissecretmiserytoheronthenightwhenhehadsoughtherouttoreproach
her for having forced her way into Laura Lou's room. She knew the whole
historyofhismarriedlife,butnoallusiontohershadever
escaped her, and he had imagined that she avoided the subject lest her
confidencesshouldcomplicateVance'srelationswithherhusband.
After a moment she continued: "But what's the use? People do what they
must--whattheythinktheymust.It'sallboundupwithmyfamilyhistory--it's
toolongtotell.ButLewiswasgeneroustothematatimewhenIcouldn'tbe,
andthatheldmefast....Youunderstand?"
Vance understood. He thought of the generosity of Laura Lou, who had
lavishedherallonhim,andhadheldhimfast.
"Life'ssuchaperplexityandawaste,"shepursued--"oratthetimeitseemsso.
Therewereso many times when I knew I was utterly useless to Lewis, and
whenIimaginedIcouldhavehelpedyouifI'dbeenfree.Andnow,allofa
sudden,everything'schanged...."Sheputherhandonhis."CouldIhelpyou
still--?"
"Yes."
"Vance!"Shesatsilent,andhelaidhisotherhandonhers.Atlengthshebegan
tospeakmore connectedly,totellhim oftwo almostsimultaneousevents in
herlife--thesuddendeathoftheoldMissLorburnofStuyvesantSquare,who
hadlefthertheWillows,withmoremoneythanshecouldhavehopedfor,and
thediscoverythatthetiebetweenTarrantandherselfhadbecomeasirksome
toherhusbandastoher.ThelatterannouncementwasnosurprisetoVance,
forattheNewHourofficethejokesaboutthePulsiferFirstNovelPrizehad
beencoupledwithagooddealofgossipaboutthedonorandTarrant.Vance
recalledhisownexperiencewithMrs.Pulsifer,andfeltarecoilofdisgust.
"AndyouseeIhadtotellyoufirstofall--youdoseethat,Vance?Becauseit
seemedtomethatlifehadslippedbackagaintothatnightwhenyousaid--oh,
Vance,Icouldrepeattoyoueverywordyousaid!AndIknewhowyouloved
me and hated me while you said them--yet I was held fast. But now it's all
over, and I'mfree,free,free!" She sprang to her feet again. "What a child I
mustseemtoyou!AndI'molderthanyou--andyouletmegoontalkingall
thisnonsense...."
Hehadtriedhisbesttolistenattentivelytowhatshewassaying;butitwas
drowned under a surge of joy. It was curious, how hard it was for him to
followthewordsofanyonetooclosetohissoulforwordstobeneeded.He
wondered she did not feel that too--feel that the spring sunshine, and their
sittinginittogether,wasenoughforherasitwasforhim.Hecaughthimself
speculatingwhether,afterall,theymightnothavemadeadashfor
that bit of woodland--and then fixing his thoughts curiously on the long
slenderhandsonherknee.Hethoughtperhapsitwasbecause,forsolong,his
mindhadbeenalldarknessandconfusion,thatthesuddenclarityblindedhim,
madehimwantmoretimebeforehegropedhiswaybacktoher.Butno--the
real trouble, he thought, was that most people took so long to discover the
essential; wasted such precious moments clearing away rubbish before they
gottotheheartofathing.Allwomenwerelikethat,hesupposed--butwhat
diditmatter?Presentlyshewouldunderstand--wouldstoptalking,andjustlet
her hand lie in his. "It's so good, sitting here with you," he said. "I never
thoughtweshould."
"Oh,Vance..."
Byandby,hereflected,therewouldbeathousandthingstotellher;nowhe
couldonlythinkofthatspringwood,andtheFifthSymphony,anddawnover
Thundertop....
Sheseemedtounderstand;shesatdownbesidehimagainandgavehimback
herhand.Butafterawhilethesunwanedfromtheporch,andthechillofthe
afternoon air fell on them. She gave a shiver and stood up. "It will be dark
soon--Imustbegoing."
Helookedatherinsurprise;itwasbewilderingtohimthatthepassinghour
shouldstillhaverightsoverthem."Whycan'tyoustaywithme?"hesaid.
"Stay--now?" She drew back a step, and looked at him, and then over his
shoulderatthelittlehouse."Oh,Vance--youmustknowwhatIwant.Ifonly
we could be back together at the Willows. I should be so content if I could
helpyouasIusedto.Yourememberthethingswefoundtogetherwhenyou
were doing Instead--the ideas you said might not have come to you if we
hadn't talked it all over? Well, that's what I want . . . that you should come
backtotheWillows,nowit'smine,andletmehelpyou.Oh,Vance,sayyes--
say we can go back and begin again. . . ." She leaned toward him with a
gestureofentreaty."Don'tyouunderstandthatwhatIwantisallyoucangive
mewithouthavingtohurtanybodyelse?"
Hewassilent,tryingtotakeinherwords.Buttheolddifficultypersisted--she
wastoonear,hewastoomuchsubmergedbyhernearness."Youdon'tsee--"
hebegan.
Sheinterruptedpassionately:"ButIdo--Ido.HowcanyouthinkIdon't.Can't
youseethatIknowit'sdifferentwithyou--perhapsalwaysmustbe?AllIwant
isthatweshouldtrytorenewourfriendship...thatyoushould
let me help you as I used to. . . . Don't you think I could make Laura Lou
understandthat?"
The sound of the name shook him abruptly out of his trance. "Laura Lou?
She'sdead,"hesaid.
Halo Tarrant moved back a step and stood staring at him in dumb
bewilderment. Then she began to tremble. Her face twitched, and she lifted
her hands to hide it. Vance saw that she was crying; and presently her tears
brokeintosobs.Shewassufferingterribly;hesawthatshewashorrifiedand
didnotknowhowtoexpressherdismay.Hesupposedthatshethoughthimto
blamefor not telling her at once--perhaps regarded himasbrutal,unfeeling.
Buthecouldnotimaginewhy.Allthatbelongedtoanotherplane,toanother
life, almost . . . his mind refused to relate it to what he and she had in
common. But how explain this to her, if she could not feel for herself the
differencebetweenthatshadowandthisburningreality?
"Vance--Vance--you ought to have told me," she sobbed reproachfully. "I
know,"hesaid."Iwasgoingto...."
"Whatmustyouthinkofme?Howcouldyouletmegoontalkinglikethat?"
"Ilikedjusttolistentoyourvoice...."
"Don't--don'tsaysuchthingstomenow!"Shebrokeofftoaskinawhisper.
"Howlongagowasit?"
Hehadtomakeaneffortofthememory."Itwasaweekagoyesterday.""Only
aweekago--oh,whatmustyouthinkofme?"
"Iwishyouwouldn'tcry,"hepleaded."Oh,Vance--canyoueverforgiveme?"
"Yes."
"Itseemssodreadful--buthowwasItoknow?""Youcouldn'thaveknown."
"Oh,poorlittleLauraLou!Ishallneverforgivemyself--butyoumustsaythat
youforgiveme!"
Itwascurious:hehadtoreasonwithherasifshewereachild.Itwasalmost
asifhewerereasoningwithLauraLou.Hefelthimselfcallinguponthesame
sortofpatience--asifheweresittingdownonthefloortocomfortachildthat
hadhurtitself....Andwhenatlasthedrewherarmthroughhisandwalked
beside her in the darkness to the corner where she had left her motor, he
wonderedifatcrucialmomentsthesameveilofunrealitywouldalwaysfall
betweenhimselfandthesoulnearesthim,ifthecreatorofimaginarybeings
mustalwaysfeelaloneamongtherealones.
THEEND
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